I’ve come up with the male equivalent of “resting bitch face,” that sexist slight used to describe women who don’t dutifully beam sun-splashed smiles as they slog through yet another day of taxing responsibilities. Unfortunately, my term for the male equivalent—resting ogre face—aptly describes—to echo Eliot’s “Prufrock”—the face I prepare to face the faces that I meet. In other words, I shuffle through my world looking like an angry old man, projecting an aura that conveys get out of my way, don’t mess with me, whoever you are.

Even when I should be attempting to look somewhat pleasant—for example, in a public interview at a book festival—I come across like a put-upon asshole. Take a look. Notice the interviewer’s cheerful demeanor. Now notice the expression of the man sitting next to him.

I don’t even know, at this late stage of my existence, if it’s worth the effort to emend this unfortunate aspect of my demeanor. After all, a genuine scowl, as opposed to an ersatz smile, might be preferable in today’s timeline, when our country is led by an amoral, narcissistic vulgarian who sports a white baseball cap at a solemn ceremony where he meets the families of slain soldiers in a war he started under false pretenses—apparently to distract the public from the almost assured likelihood that he’s a pedophile.

In any case, until circumstances improve, resting ogre face may simply be the most honest expression available.