The Problem With Furrowing

I am one of those expressively-faced people. This is a good thing, in that it makes me endlessly amusing and endearing. But it's a bad thing in that it can A) Get me into Trouble, and B) Give me Permanent Brow Furrows.

The getting into Trouble has been an issue all my life, but I'm only recently becoming aware of the Permanent Brow Furrows. I fear that they will only deepen and deepen until I resemble a Neanderthal (the "h" is silent, people!) woman. Especially if they get to be so deep that I can no longer fit any pair of tweezers in existence into the vast gaping cleft that will have taken up residence on my forehead. The sweetly shaped eyebrows that I am currently in possession of will become singular in nature, and I will begin to grunt, wear animal skins, and celebrate the burial of my dead with primitive religious ceremonies.

I fear that this is imminent.

The expressions getting me into trouble thing just waxes and wanes seemingly of its own volition. I can remember getting a "check" next to my name in grade school with my teacher's explanation written beside it in neat, flowing cursive: Rolled eyes at me. Yeah, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, bitch. It was totally worth it. Even though I didn't get to watch The Golden Child with my class that month because of the fateful check.

In grad school, we were taking a break from class (the classes were, like, FOUR. HOURS. LONG.) when one of my friends pointed at me and laughed maniacly. "You look SOOO pissed off during class! And I was like, I know she's happy, why does she look so mad? I know she's not mad. She's happy! I was, indeed, "happy". It was then that I came to a realization--my "thoughtful" look, complete with deep brow furrowing, translates as pissed-offed-ness. Oops. Now when I'm doing things like sitting in boring-ass meetings or going on job interviews, I make a concerted effort to hold my eyebrows aloft in perfectly groomed little St. Louis Arches, all the while nodding thoughtfully.

After one of those aforementioned boring-ass meetings last week, a co-worker-slash-friend informed me that she was no longer going to be able to sit either anywhere near me or anywhere it was possible to see my facial expressions. (This, I think, limits her meeting seating choices quite severely.) Apparently, unbeknownst to me, when something stupid is said or done, my right eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly in a miniscule expression of aghast disdain. Oops.

(In my defense, at the last boring-ass meeting, my boss's boss unveiled our "department's New Mascot!" that she "couldn't leave in the store!" because "he was too cute!!!". This was a bug. A stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug in a rainbow of garish neon colors. A giant stuffed but in a rainbow of garish neon colors that makes me feel like I'm working at a freaking CARNIVAL. Now, can one's eyebrow really be expected to remain in a position of non-disdain when faced with events such as this?)

The bug is really deserving of a blog all his own, but at this point I don't think I have the energy to get into how there can possibly be a giant stuffed bug flopped atop a cubicle in the middle of the room. Really, it's just too much.

But, back to the brow furrowing. I can combat the encroachment of Neanderthal-dom with Burt's Bees slathered liberally across my already greasy T-zone, but I'm not really sure how to combat the disdain. Most especially the aghast disdain, which is the worst kind of disdain of all.

Perhaps there's a lotion.