Silvia Preview

Edited by: Silvia Bajardi, Betsy Hunt, Leigh Anne Jasheway and Katherine Shaw Syndromes written by Leigh Anne Jasheway

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resem- blance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coinci- dental. Copyright © 2019 The Syndrome Mag All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, email: [email protected]. First paperback edition March 2019 ISBN: 9781091934184 www.thesyndromemag.com Interior layout and design by www.writingnights.org Book preparation by Chad Robertson Cover design by Ivica Jandrijevic Illustrations by Tiffany Burton 24 23 22 21 20 19 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

DEDICATION To all the women who need a laugh and those who create the laughter. May we all come together laughing, knowing that giggles, snorts, and belly laughs are our superpower in the fight against gender injustice.



CONTENTS DEDICATION.............................................................................................. v CONTENTS ............................................................................................... vii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ............................................................................. xiii INTRODUCTION ......................................................................................... 1 Body Talk My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome............................... 7 Breasts—You Can’t Escape Them by Katherine Shaw ...................................9 Lock Up Your Boobs—They’re Trouble by Leigh Anne Jasheway .............. 13 Whose Face Is This? Syndrome ............................................................19 Hello Eye Bags, My New Friends by Mille Anemone ...................................21 Discover the Secret to Wrinkle-Free Skin by Frankly Frankie ..................23 Pluck It Syndrome ...............................................................................27 Overcome Your Ladystache Anxiety and Start Giving Them Lip Again by Katherine Shaw....................................................29 By the Hair of My Chinny Chin Chin by Nicole Borke...............................33 SEX You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome........................................41 Sluhhts and the Downfall of the Decent Man by Vedma ............................ 43 Yeah, I’m a Slut by Charlie Syns .................................................................... 45

viii Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syndrome.............................................. 51 Safety and Passion Go Hand in Hand by Salomé..........................................53 Turns out Rebound Sex Can Help You Get over a Breakup, or so I Heard by Cecilia Calado ......................................................56 Not Asking for It Syndrome ................................................................ 63 It’s All in Your Head: Consent Syndrome by Giugi Carminati ...................65 The Wheels on the Bus Go Grope, Grope, Grope by Katherine Shaw ......69 RELATIONSHIPS Dating is Weird Syndrome................................................................... 77 No One Can Make You Feel Inferior Without Your Consent, or so They Say by Katherine Shaw.................................................................. 79 Catch Me If You Can by Bernice Jing Ye......................................................83 You Can’t Choose Your Family Syndrome ............................................ 89 Brothers and Sisters Can Do One Thing Together: Argue! by Lynn Colwell ........................................................91 My Grandma Is Cooler Than Yours by Amber Rose Forbes...................... 94 I’ll Be There for You Syndrome........................................................... 99 Female Friendships: Part of the tribe… until you’re not by Megan DeBell .............................. 101 Greeting Friends Across Cultures: Hugs, Kiss or Handshake? by Caitlin Huson ...............................................104

ix WORK Imposter Syndrome ...........................................................................113 Imposter Syndrome Doesn’t Affect Our Ability to Shoot, but It Affects Where We Aim by Erika Livingstone.................................... 115 Murdered, Manhandled, Mugged? Not Me! I'm Not Good Enough by Kelly Benson........................................119 I Hate My Job Syndrome .....................................................................125 So, You Wanna Be a Businesswoman? 5 Tips for Breaking the Glass Ceiling Without Getting Cut by Katherine Shaw ..... 127 15 Alarming Signs You’re in a Crappy Job by Tashi Farmilo-Marouf ....... 131 Pay Up Syndrome................................................................................137 Would You like Room for Cream with your Crippling Student Debt? by Tashi Farmilo-Marouf ................. 139 A Call to End (The Real) Welfare Fraud by Jennifer Sparklebritches .....141 AGING Personal Global Warming Syndrome.................................................149 Is It Warm in Here or Is It That Pesky Perimenopause Again? by Tashi Farmilo-Marouf................................................................... 151 An Enchanting Rant by the Invisible Middle-Aged Woman by Janet Livingstone ................................................ 153 Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome..................................................................159 14 Mistakes That Make Women Look Older by Leigh Anne Jasheway ....161

x Why Pay the Salon When You Can Just Enjoy Your God-Given Natural Highlights? by Katherine Shaw.................................. 165 Age is All in My Head Syndrome ........................................................ 171 My Aging Brain: A Flea Market of Useless Information by Denise Thiery............................173 The Perks of Turning 40— 100% True, 50% Funny by Noga Tal ..............176 MOTHERHOOD Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome................................................... 183 The Pleasures of Parenthood— Where’s My Manual? by Janet Livingstone ................................................ 186 Why Parenting Is the Best! (And Also the Worst) by Natasha O’Rourke .............................................190 I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome ........................................................ 197 I Can’t Put on Pants, but I’d Make a Great Parent… Maybe by Laura Hamilton .................................................. 199 My Ovaries Go for a Ride at FAO Schwarz by Mary Purdy .................... 203 A Kid Isn’t a Stereotype Syndrome.................................................... 209 The Princess and the Sea Cucumber: Mothering a Boy and a Girl by Katherine Wilson........................................ 211 Dismantling the Patriarchy from the Inside: A Single-Mom’s Experience by Kiki Prottsman .......................................... 214

xi HEALTH I’m Not a Cancer, I Have Cancer Syndrome.........................................223 Trigger Warning: You Are About to Hear from a Privileged White Girl from the Eastside by Kelly Benson......................... 225 The Beauty of Chemo by Barbara Cicalini ................................................. 228 Backless Paper Gown Syndrome........................................................233 The Nitty Gritty of Squeezing the Titty: There’s Much More to a Mammogram Than Saving Lives by Adina Gillett............................................................... 235 Along with Having a Long Vagina Comes a Long List of Responsibilities by Laura Magnani....................................... 238 Shut the F Up, Doc Syndrome..............................................................243 My Therapist Says Mindfulness Is Not the Same as Mind Full of Things by Frankly Frankie ...................................................... 245 This Woman Needs a Doctor Who Listens to Her by Leigh Anne Jasheway............................................248 IDENTITY AND CULTURE Gotta Be Me Syndrome .......................................................................257 No, I Won’t Fix My Small Asian Eyes by Bernice Jing Ye........................ 259 An Open Letter to The Perfect Woman by Erin Sanchez ........................ 262 I Do Have Rights, Right? Syndrome.....................................................267 Iranian Prison: The Best Place to Get Your Body Bikini Ready by Jasmine Eftekhari ........................................................................................................... 269

xii Cyntoia Brown and the Bullshit Women’s Punishment Gap by Leigh Anne Jasheway .................................................272 A Broad Abroad Syndrome................................................................. 277 Vignettes of Moving and Living in the US by Sujata Agrawal ...................279 Access Is Subjective by Laura Hamilton ..................................................... 284 CONCLUSION The Syndrome of All Syndromes: Being Female................................. 293 About Us: The Syndrome Project....................................................... 297 Authors............................................................................................. 298 Donate............................................................................................... 303

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS HANKS TO ALL THE AMAZING, strong, resilient and funny Twomen who made this book possible: not only our editors and writ- ers, but also the women who work behind the scenes in our closed social media group called the Kitchen. Together, we’ve had produc- tive discussions on gender inequality and how to create a better world, and produced daily humorous content based on our shared ideas. Finally, a special thanks to our readers and followers of The Syndrome Mag who understand how important is for women to have a voice and to be listened to.



INTRODUCTION (Yes, it’s a Serious One. But, Don’t Worry, the Fun Comes Later) HAT EXACTLY DO WE MEAN by “syndrome?” And why Wwrite a book about the syndromes that afflict women? The idea for a collective project on this matter started with a thought. Since the beginning of time, women's lives in every aspect have been affected by a lie and a contradiction. The lie is that we are not “enough”— not beautiful enough, not smart enough, not good enough, and the list goes on. Women are asked to meet an ideal from the outside against which we almost always come up short. The contradiction comes when while trying to achieve this faulty, de- ceptive ideal, we often become the exact opposite. Beauty can be seen by others as sexual provocation, intelligence can be taken for aggressiveness, and professional skills can be criticized over domestic and family ones. The lie and the contradiction create a feeling of inadequacy tied up in a sense of guilt. These feelings crop up in every sphere of women's lives, from how we think about being mothers or child-free women, to how we

2 The SYNDROME Mag walk down the street, to how we put on lipstick or walk into a business meeting. The syndrome is this centuries-old burden of being told so often how we should be to the point that it gets mixed up with our real identities. Trapped in our syndromes, we have to struggle to even recognize and, even more, free ourselves from them. So, what can we do? The solution is in our very DNA as women. It is in our innate capacity throughout history and around the world to create friendships and social groups and to be in solidarity with one another. And to react to our lives and each other’s with laughter. Not only does laughing unite us but it also has the power to counteract the system of rules reining us in. This is the key concept behind The Syndrome magazine and the mis- sion of our non-profit organization—to create awareness about issues of gender equality through humor. Our writers have been meeting online for two years in a private group on social media. We call this space the “Kitchen.” It's our virtual office for creating the content of our online magazine, The Syndrome Mag, and the memes we publish on social media. For centuries the kitchen has been a workplace for women. We wanted to re-appropriate it, taking only the positive parts: creativity (we cook ideas) and the sharing of confidences and laughter. We work in an atmosphere free of competitiveness and judgment, a place of free self-expression. This anthology is a collection of articles published in the magazine, organized by theme. The goal is to help us see the scope of how syndromes affect the lives of women: from macroscopic aspects like politics and fun- damental rights to everyday ones, like the perception of our bodies, aging, and stereotypes that shape our romantic and sexual relationships. This is just a sample, a representation of the viewpoints of the extraor- dinary women of our community: professional writers and journalists, women in tech, lawyers, doctors, housewives, women students, artists, ac- tresses, entrepreneurs... Women of different cultures, races, religions, sexual

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 3 orientations, and ages. As we talk about ourselves in our diversity, we demonstrate the richness of women's experience and the yearning to be ourselves, regardless of ste- reotypes and conditioning. Humor is a tool, not only to entertain but to bring us together and process the things that cause us stress. Speaking to both women and men, it starts a conversation we need to have. Storytelling creates awareness, the first necessary step for change. The result is women who are not afraid to look at themselves in the mirror, who laugh at what they consider their weaknesses and the things that used to—or still— scare them. And, most importantly, women who are not afraid to change and to ask society to do so with them. This means taking our story out of the kitchen and taking it into the living room, the bedroom, the streets, the boardroom, and the halls of government. It fears no geographical, no social or cultural barriers, and it becomes the story of us all. Put simply, it treats the syndrome. The Directress



Body Talk



My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome FTER ABOUT AGE 11, every woman on the planet (and many Awell-developed men and boys) develops My Boobs are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome, also known as BOO-B.S. If you’ve ever felt your breasts were too small, too large, too medium, too pointed to the right, too perky, too saggy, too naggy, too much nipple, not enough nipple, too much side boob (often a temporary side-effect of a mammogram gone wrong), too much uniboob… you have this syn- drome. The most difficult issue for sufferers is dealing with BOO-B.S. is reg- ularly feeling conflicting emotions. For example, a woman can be proud of the attention her boobs get while also feeling extremely uncomfortable that they distract from her brains, talent and ankles. Or she can be happy about the fact that her breasts make the perfect cushion for snuggling cats

8 My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome while being frustrated with how difficult it is to make a golf putt. Perhaps she is delighted with her ability to breastfeed her baby, but worried that she may be going to prison for punching a passerby who yelled, “Ew, that’s disgusting.” Despite the fact that some men also suffer from this syndrome, this is not an issue most women are comfortable discussing with male friends or health professionals due to the excessive drooling and whining about how if they had boobs, they’d never stop playing with them. Keep in mind that nipple rings are NOT going to help with this syndrome, no matter what some guy tells you.

BREASTS—YOU CAN’T ESCAPE THEM by Katherine Shaw BOOBS. TITS. BREASTS. Jugs. Hooters. Whatever synonym you choose for reference, these fatty bulges made my adolescence an all-inclu- sive trip to HELL. Boobs receive a lot of attention in our society and sure, they can be tits fun, but only in the best of contexts. I developed early. Too early. When I was eight, I was forced to wear a bra. My mother decided that brutal honesty was the best route for build- ing a healthy body image. Of course, being MY mother, our discussion was more of a sing-along. To this day I can remember her singing (loudly, to the point of scream- ing) to the tune of that classic song “Do your ears hang low?” Her version went: Do your boobs hang low? Do they wobble to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulders, like a Continental soldier? DO YOUR BOOBS HANG LOW?! A bra was flung at my face and I had no choice. I will forever wear it… for fear that my boobs will hang low… and wobble to and fro.

10 My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome Some women enjoy having boobs. Some yearn for larger breasts. There are articles of clothing named “boob shirts” so that gals may flaunt their sex bumps. I am both appalled and utterly jealous of their confidence (I am appalled only due to my inability to embrace my own chestal area). However, with my personal experiences and some awkward observational sessions, I’ve discovered that boobs are nothing but an evil source of pain and require too much time and money to maintain. You think me too harsh? Exhibit A: Boobs are THE reason why I refuse to exercise. It has nothing to do with me being lazy. In high school, I was forced to run laps despite my com- plaints of dislocating my boob. Is it even possible to dislocate a boob? Why do mine hurt? Is it because I accidentally punched one while running? Is it because I rammed my boob into a door? Are these boob-things going to eventually fall off due to acute trauma?! My gym teacher could not be convinced of my hardship. Exhibit B: At the age of sixteen, my boobs became an unstoppable force. I would bend over and SNAP—I needed a new bra. Think “Houdini tits.” The tits that refused to be bound! They will find a way to freedom. The absolute worst time for this to happen is during Christmas at your extended family’s house. “Crap. My bra broke.” One hour later: “I guess I’ll throw it away. I’ll bury it deep in the garbage so no one will see it.” Sitting in the kitchen… A family member walks in, holding my bra in the air. “Whose bra is this?” As the entire family looks around the room wondering, I raise my hand and claim ownership of the rogue brassiere. I want to die. NOW.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 11 Exhibit C: I’m a grown woman! I should know what bra size I am. After years of enduring underwire-snap- attacks, I officially give up on being independ- ent and ask the saleslady at Victoria’s Secret to measure me. I’m now in a tiny room with a stranger. Why did I follow her here? Am I going to get kidnapped… or… boob-napped? A normal person would have no problem standing here with no shirt on, but I was a fat teenager and never played 7 Minutes in Heaven. I have no experience standing in a closet with a stranger touching me. Why am I breathing so heavily? I hope she doesn’t think I’m INTO this. The lovely saleslady is wrapping the tape around me (please don’t strangle me with it) and is cocking her eyebrow. “What size have you been wearing?” “Um, I’ve been shoving them into a 38 C.” She doesn’t even know what to say at this point. Great. My boobilly- challenged self has silenced the boob expert. “Why? What am I supposed to be wearing?” “I’ll go and grab you a DD.” She’s so judging me right now. Exhibit D: Sometimes when a person eats, food accidentally falls out of their mouth. This food crumb is supposed to land on the table or the floor, but since I have stupid boobs, the food crumb ends up in my bra. And I have to get it out… And maybe (definitely) eat this crumb. And this usually happens on the rare occasion that I leave my house for a bite. I’m desperately trying to make this digging expedition as casual as pos- sible… Unfortunately, there’s nothing casual about finger-searching your cleavage and the people around you become confused/embarrassed (aroused?). Yet, the tastier the food, the less I care about digging in my bra. The fact is, all that digging is worth it as long as the crumb is amazing. The anomaly in these data-gathering-research-situations is what I call “the

12 My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome soup point.” Soup is much tastier than say, carrot or tortilla bits. The sit- uation remains awkward because soup is messy and scalds the boob flesh. The universe has taught me many things, one of which is the fact that you WILL spill food all over your shirt, but even if it is the best Hungarian mushroom soup you’ve ever had, in no way is it socially appropriate to lick/suck the soup out of your shirt. That is an instinct that can/should be suppressed. Of course, I’ve failed many times at suppressing this urge. Exhibit DD: Here is the truth as to why I detest boobs. On a seemingly normal Thurs- day evening, I find myself in the produce section of my neighborhood grocery store. I am deciding which grapefruit to purchase, and a man comes up to me. Thinking that he’s in need of grapefruit, I politely step to the side. He stares at me. He stares at my boobs. He gives the grapefruit a SMACK and says to me: “Well, there YOU go!” and walks off. Have I just been sexually harassed? Attention humans! You are allowed to appreciate my boobs, but can you at least do it in a non-slime-ball manner? I really don’t mind if I catch you staring at my boobs; the truth is that I accidentally stare at men’s crotches ALL THE TIME. The point is that when you find yourself over- whelmed with bodily beauty, be cognizant that you are interacting with a human being. Show some respect. Show a lot of respect because who knows, I might even let you touch one.

LOCK UP YOUR BOOBS—THEY’RE TROUBLE by Leigh Anne Jasheway BOOBS ARE BIG trouble. Maybe your nipples stand erect in the slight- est breeze and you wear “nipple covers” whenever you leave the house. (By the way, when I Googled “nipple covers,” an article popped up explaining how to use pantiliners to make your own. So, if you’re looking to save money…) Or it could be that you are wide-breasted and when you turn around suddenly, you accidentally boob-slap anyone in the vicinity. Or perhaps your breasts are so pendulous that you can do a tassel dance without tas- sels. Whatever your boobal situation, chances are yours have been a source of consternation and embarrassment for you. I know mine have. Once a surgeon, who was being paid to remove what turned out to be a benign lump, told me that my boobs were like “small bags of gravel.” Had I not been anesthetized, I would have yelled back, “Oh yeah? Well, your balls are filled with dust!” Tit for tat, right? Despite his horrid bedside manner, the doctor’s “bags of gravel” com- ment was mostly true. I don’t know what’s in your boobs (marshmallows? pudding?), but mine are lumpy, bumpy, and all too often grumpy. Back in the days when I ovulated, I had a strict “do not enter the room for 3 days” clause in my marriage contract for fear my then-husband

14 My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome would accidentally brush up against my sore and rocky breasts and I’d accidentally bite off his head as a female praying mantis does to her mate. My shower breast self-exams have always been less like “Where’s Waldo” and more like “Where Isn’t He?” I’m lucky I even have boobs, though. Until I was 17, my chestal area resembled the Maldives, an island chain in the Indian Ocean that is de- scribed as “the flattest country on earth.” Boys in middle school and high school teased me ceaselessly until I started stuffing my undershirt. I wore a white tank top under everything because my dad refused to buy me a bra. “I need a bra more than you do,” he insisted. And it was sadly true, even in the 11th grade. When I stripped off my blouse at home and stood looking at myself in the mirror, I looked like a short old man who stored toilet paper in his shirt for possible nosebleeds, but at least there was some contour out front. Ah, the subterfuge young girls learn just to stop the bullying. Even after they grew in, my boobs were mostly medium-ish and didn’t often get in the way of my daily life. Not like my friend Debbie, whose breasts regularly popped out of the top of her shirt like Meerkats on the alert for nearby lions. Or my co-worker, Sue, who loved to golf, but com- plained she couldn’t putt well because her uniboob was in the way. Or my friend Lisa whose G-cups were so heavy she adopted a permanent arm- crossing pose just to prop them up. We went to yoga class together once and while in downward dog, she nearly suffocated. But even my negligible boobs have gotten into their fair share of trou- ble. Once, while debating in college, both straps of my “convertible” bra (it converted from regular straps to crisscross to strapless) came undone and while I was talking, my bra slowly rolled down my body. By the time I sat down, it was more of a belt. Oh, and my first mammogram caught on fire. Believe me, you never get over something like that. I still carry a fire extinguisher with me when- ever I have a mammogram. Better safe than stuck in the boob-smasher with the fire department nowhere in sight. And once, I got a weird rash that could best be described as “athlete’s

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 15 boob.” The cream that was prescribed turned my nipples fluorescent green. I was tempted to go down to the airport to see if I could bring planes in. Of course, none of us would have any trouble with our breasts if we’d just buckle down and buy a new bra—at least that’s what the “bra scien- tists” want us to believe. The ads shout at us on Facebook and Twitter and television. “80% of women are wearing the wrong size bra!” “Wearing the wrong bra can cause your breasts to sag prematurely and your voice to sound like James Earl Jones’s!” There have been so many bras that promised magic but fail to deliver throughout the years. The Wonderbra, which unfortunately could not create cleavage from stomach fat (don’t ask how I know). The Water Bra, which was not ad- vised for hot-flashing women unless they wanted to boil pasta while in a business meeting. The Pump-Up bra, which was a good choice if you reg- ularly flew over water—you could pump it up to maximum capacity to serve as a flotation device. A company even took out a patent on a Mood Bra, but really, do you need your lingerie to tell you what mood you’re in? Maybe we just need to accept that like 2-year-olds and puppies, our breasts are always going to be trouble-makers, whether we’re wearing a $60 bra promising the world, an undershirt full of toilet paper, or panty- liner nipple covers.

16 My Boobs Are Awesome and I Hate Them Syndrome TREATMENT Telling a woman that her boobs are perfect, and she shouldn’t worry so much about them is about as effective as telling her to smile (and fre- quently the consequences are similar). The goal is to help every woman feel the pride of ownership with her boobs. This can be achieved in many ways and the treatment plan varies depending upon the woman. For ex- ample, some women are able to move from love/hate to “agree to disagree” with their breasts by giving them space and releasing them from all con- straints. Others become more upbeat and learn to embrace their cleavage by joining a burlesque troupe and traveling the country. Some prefer to take the advice of men and play with them all the time. Really, the best treatment is whatever works.





Whose Face Is This? Syndrome HOSE FACE IS THIS? SYNDROME is a complex issue Wthat involves trying to get one’s face to be simultaneously younger, more attractive, happier, and more inviting to the world at large. Women with this syndrome report that their faces are exhausted from all the Mona Lisa-like half-smiling (because a full smile creates smile lines) and raising their eyebrows to appear youthful and alert even before their caffeine hit has kicked in. Some syndrome suf- ferers report covering their faces with peanut butter so that when they appear in public their faces are covered with squirrels and no one can crit- icize them. Plus, the squirrels love it! Symptoms and signs Most women who suffer from Whose Face Is This? Syndrome report that they are unaware that their face is misbehaving until some passing male stranger kindly suggests that they smile so they can look pretty. The good

20 Whose Face Is This? Syndrome news is that while researchers estimate that it takes 17 muscles to smile, it only takes one to allow the face to rest in a natural position, bitch or not. In other words, Whose Face Is This? Syndrome is really less of a medical issue and more about saving energy for more important things in life. So, let ‘er rest!

HELLO EYE BAGS, MY NEW FRIENDS by Mille Anemone IT'S BEEN YEARS since I've taken a good, hard look at my face. “How is that possible?” you may ask, especially in this social-media-obsessed cul- ture where we're constantly snapping mobile photos of our riveting day- to-day lives. I’m clearly in the minority here with online articles with titles like “Will Resting Bitch Face Cost You Your Job?” and “How to Always Look Surprised So No One Knows What You’re Thinking.” Here’s why: First, who’s got time? As a money-earning millennial woman, I'm far too busy pressing my nose against the glass ceiling. I can’t see my face in it because there are smudge prints from the thousands of other women doing the same. Second, with all the news today, I’m afraid my expression may just make me feel worse. From anti-vaxxers causing a new measles outbreak, non-stop Donald Trump coverage, and news that global warming will cause humans to have to move in with hungry polar bears, I'm too busy trying to meditate (or is that medicate?). For my sanity, I’ve installed a no- glare feature on my cell phone, so I don’t accidentally catch my reflection while I’m scrolling through my Facebook and Twitter feeds.

22 Whose Face Is This? Syndrome Third, face-filters, which I really enjoyed, are so 2016., so I’ve had to accept that I don’t naturally have cat whiskers and dog ears or rainbows for eyebrows. It’s not as much fun looking at my real face. Plus, I'm busy snapping stories of every food item I consume because that’s still so 2019. So, when I did catch a glimpse of my real-life face the other day, I gotta say, it was a little disturbing. I’ve got eye bags now that seem to be filled either with fat that used to be in my boobs or with existential angst. At first, I was alarmed. After all, this is not the face I remember having. Then I settled into the idea that maybe I should finally learn the art and science of make-up to cover up any imperfections. It’s either that or Google “eye bag-o-suction.” I know that eyebrows are all the rage. Maybe if I draw some that are highly arched—or maybe even a Frida Kahlo-like unibrow—it would dis- tract people from looking at my eye bags. But when it comes down to it, I’m feeling a little pride in these well- earned eye bags. They’re like well-used luggage (only without the tags that read Paris! London! Des Moines!) that announced to the world, I’ve been around and seen some stuff. And really, what’s a better way to bring attention to my nose piercing, than to nestle it between full, bushy brows and a good ole pair of dark, ample eye bags? What better way to defy all notions of women having to have a face as smooth as the glass ceiling we press it to? Not to mention, if the glass ceiling ever shatters, I’ll have these eye bags to protect the rest of my face.

DISCOVER THE SECRET TO WRINKLE-FREE SKIN by Frankly Frankie NO MATTER THE product, if I see the words “anti-wrinkle” or “wrin- kle-free skin” on a package in the store, I’m going to buy it. One time, the product turned out to be a shampoo, but I didn’t care; I used it and justi- fied buying it because it unwrinkled my hair. Over the years, with my continued use of anti-wrinkle skin products for wrinkle-free skin, I thought maybe I could see a difference, but it was ever so small; my eyes still had creases, my forehead deep grooves, and my mouth permanent smile lines. But being a very determined woman, I decided to take matters into my own hands. In the park, on my walks, and on the school playground, I started to observe women who had fewer wrinkles than me. What were they doing that I wasn’t? I needed to know. And then one day, I was watching the news and saw the First Lady of the United States. She had totally nailed the anti-wrinkle look and I won- dered again what was going on. Did she have a miracle cream and how could I get my hands on it? Did Mrs. Trump know something I didn’t about having wrinkle-free skin? That night, after a bottle of my favorite wine and a good laugh with my girlfriends, I studied my face before going to bed. There it was in clear

24 Whose Face Is This? Syndrome view—how had I missed it? I had wrinkles because I smile too much! Ac- tually, when I laugh, I laugh hard, a real belly laugh. I looked at the First Lady’s stoic expression in a photo I found online. That was it! If I stopped smiling, I would have skin as smooth as a baby’s bottom. It was so easy, so worth it, AND so cheap. Actually, no cost at all. My husband would be thrilled! I thought carefully about my strategy to create a life without smiles or laughter. I had to be careful not to turn my smile into a frown, that would also cause wrinkles. Really, a neutral emotionless face was the goal. Some might even call it “resting bitch face.” I knew I would have non-supportive friends and family; my eight-year- old would especially take issue with it. Can you imagine his next birthday party with me the stone-faced host? I told myself I would have to keep my distance from these non-sup- porters. They wouldn’t understand the sacrifice I had to make. I applied clear Scotch tape around my mouth during times I knew I would really be tempted to smile, such as at dinner parties. It worked, but due to my sweating face, I frequently had to retreat to the washroom to reapply it. I went to bed early every night and avoided any tickling or joking around with my kids or husband. I avoided all music. I ate neutral foods like salad and spent long, valuable periods of time in front of the mirror perfecting my expression. I did not dare watch anything on TV, YouTube or read The Syndrome Mag. After a month of sacrifice and dedication to the cause, I examined my- self in detail, in the mirror, and there it was, plain as day: I had wrinkle- free skin. I know my journey is not for everyone, but I can’t help but feel like there are other women out there like me and the First Lady who have successfully mastered wrinkle-free living, one expressionless day at a time.

TREATMENT For those women who seek options, graphic designers have created the simplest solutions. We’re all familiar with the wide variety of emojis avail- able online to express our emotions. With those in mind, there are two treatment options, both of which require a color printer and double-sided tape. 1) Print out face-sized emojis that represent the feelings you’d like your resting face to convey most often (e.g.: happy, sad, excited, relaxed, fabulous, paranoid, in love, get your hand off my knee, tired, silly, just finished the laundry, annoyed, stop mansplaining, horny, running for of- fice, and hangry). Carry all of these in your purse so you can choose one to stick to your face when in public. 2) The simpler option, especially if your purse is already full of crap, is to print out just one emoji—about to snap—and always wear it so no one dares suggest you change your expres- sion.



Pluck It Syndrome NTIL RECENT YEARS, no one recognized Pluck It Syndrome Uas a formal medical issue. Women just quietly sat on their toilet, tweezers in hand, cursing at their mustache, unibrow, or those nip- ple hairs that seem long enough to rappel down the side of the Grand Canyon. Symptoms and signs But today, fears of turning into Sasquatch overnight abound as evidenced by an abundance of commercials selling hair removal products featuring hairless young women applying hot wax to their chins or using personal lasers to clear the shrubbery on the south side of the property. Apparently, women of the female variety are supposed to only sprout hair on their head, brows, and lashes—the latter of which should be long enough to bat away houseflies or traffic helicopters. Unfortunately, many in the health and beauty professions seem to have

28 Whose Face Is This? Syndrome forgotten that women are mammals, which according to the dictionary means: “warm-blooded vertebrate animals of a class that is distinguished by the possession of hair or fur, the secretion of milk by females for the nourishment of the young, and (typically) the birth of live young.” While being hairier than perhaps is desired, there are many advantages to living life as a mammal rather than an amphibian or reptilian, including lack of scales and not being required to shed one’s skin in public. Snakes, for ex- ample, may not have to worry about rogue chin hairs, but they don’t have many friends.

OVERCOME YOUR LADYSTACHE ANXIETY AND START GIVING THEM LIP AGAIN by Katherine Shaw MY UPPER LIP has become the Unholy Trinity of Misery. Though I am not a religious person, I recognize evil when I see it. Allow me to share why my upper lip causes such misery. Let me introduce you to the concept of Ladystache: LADYSTACHE /lād-ē-staSH/ Noun 1. The appearance of hair above the upper lip of an individual who identifies as female. 2. A stripe of discolored skin, or a substance, on the upper lip of a woman. Origin Early 21st century: from North America, an affliction of one Katherine Shaw Examples of LADYSTACHE in a sentence: “I tried to shave my ladystache and now it is a rashstache.” “Ms. Shaw, you cannot have your upper lip surgically removed, for “ladystache” is not a medical condition covered by your healthcare plan.”

30 Pluck It Syndrome I am going to assume (for my own emotional wellbeing) that most women participate in their own Fight against the Follicles, Battle of the Upper Beard, Skirmish with the Snot Mop. Since age fifteen, I’ve sat in painful inspection of the invasive growth of whiskers on a once smooth, prepubescent upper lip. What evil evolutionary mechanism is responsible for this furry lip? The most I can muster is that my ancestors required more than the standard nose hair filtration system. Perhaps they lived in squalor and this familial Ladystache might’ve trapped bugs and dirt, shielding my foremothers from the Black Plague. Or perhaps the hungry hairs trapped pollen; after all, sneezing and puffy eyes can be life-threatening when surrounded by predators (hungry cats and rapey men). But Ladystache does not end with hair; a teary plucking session is only the beginning. A lesser-known branch of Ladystache includes the cluster- ing of freckles that pops up whenever my upper lip touches sunlight for longer than five minutes. This demonic occurrence is something I call “Frecklestache.” In the summer months, no amount of concealer can erase the browning of my lip. Well, that’s only partly true. I’ve learned that four layers of concealer do, in fact, cover every freckle; it also creates an “I just had a skin transplant from a cadaver” allure. In a desperate attempt to rid myself of this poo-strip-lip, I avoid sun- shine. Considering how sunlight impacts my upper lip skin, I must be allergic to the sun. Or maybe it’s because I’m Irish. Or a vampire. An Irish vampire? I honestly don’t know; the Ancestry.com mouth swab I sent in neglected to cover vampirism in the chromosomal analysis. The third demon that plagues my upper lip is sweat. And I don’t mean the gentle misting of perspiration that normal people experience. My pores hemorrhage fluid to the point that concerned citizens offer tissues and ask why I’m crying (they then see my Ladystache and offer their con- dolences). I’ve unaffectionately titled this phenomenon “Sweatstache” and it occurs whenever the temperature rises above 74 degrees. Relatives have told me to “keep a stiff upper lip” about the adversity Ladystache has dragged me through; evidently, however, I was wrong in

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 31 assuming this idiom was a suggestion for how to contort my face on the daily. Maintaining a literal stiff upper lip brings both physical discomfort and social consequences such as: • Facial nerve numbing • Children bursting into tears • Mandibular adjustment without the supervision of a certified dentist. • Elderly people in the grocery store lineup offering you crushed Aspirin in cocaine lines with concerns that you’re succumbing to a stroke • The public deeming you an individual with immense psycho- logical turmoil. These strangers will reckon your lip tic is just the beginning; at any moment, by the slightest provocation, you’ll attempt to slurp out their brains with your protruding, cannibalistic, stiff upper lip • The public quickly identifying you as an insufferable snob (this acts as a benefit for those times that we wish to apply People Repellant) Hey, at least the morning coffee line parts like the Red Sea. I’ve found my silver lining! Call me Moses, Moses with the Stiff Lip. Please, learn from my mistakes. Unless you want to be regarded as a snooty member of the Living Dead, keep that upper lip relaxed. Practice meditation with that upper lip, or lip-yoga, or rub a marijuana liniment on it. Whatever it takes to keep it chill! Now I promise I won’t end without offering solutions. Ladystache, Frecklestache, and Sweatstache are aggressive afflictions and I’ve maxim- ized the power of small fixes: SPF, tweezers, a black Victorian veil, a throng of men fanning me with palm leaves. But these solutions require time. And the geriatric men I gathered from the senior’s home who hungrily slap on Speedos and fan me with palm leaves are beginning to request

32 Pluck It Syndrome payment. So, my answer to Ladystache woes? Get over it. Fixating on one’s imperfections is patriarchy’s fancy mechanism to dis- tract women and suck their power. No longer shall I fritter away my en- ergy! There are more important things to do—like asking my Irish rela- tives if they, too, enjoy sipping a good Bloody Mary and sleeping in cof- fins.

BY THE HAIR OF MY CHINNY CHIN CHIN by Nicole Borke A COUPLE OF years ago, my mom was telling me a story when she stopped mid-sentence and said, “It’s time you had one of these, follow me.” I felt like I was eleven again, after telling her I had discovered blood in my underwear and she showed me the drawer where she kept the pads, using those exact same words. She led me into her bedroom and, as though in preparation for dental surgery, she sat me down in a reclining chair positioned strategically be- tween her dresser and a large window. She unveiled a collection of tools on her dresser, all meticulously placed on a white cotton handkerchief: various pairs of tweezers (one with a curious curved tip), folded tissues, a tiny bottle of tea tree oil and a woodpile-like stack of cotton swabs. I looked around for a needle, drill, perhaps a collection of teeth. “You have a chin hair,” she said with a look of concern on her face. “Oh?” I said, trying to keep the sound of panic out of my voice as I grazed my fingers along my chin. There it was, jutting out like a stiff piece of straw from an ornamental lawn. Without warning, I felt an urgency to get rid of it, so I pinched it between my fingernails and gave it quick, tight tugs. “That won’t work, it’s too thick,” my mom said. “Here, take this.”

34 Pluck It Syndrome With a dramatic wave of her hand, she passed me the tweezers with the curved tip. The curved tip! What did this mean? “It’s fine, totally normal,” she said in a calming voice. “And I have something else that will make your life much easier.” She handed me a mirror. “I can just do it in the bathroom mirror,” I said. She grinned at me with a look of excitement, “but the bathroom mirror can’t do this!” I readied myself for some ‘mirror, mirror on the wall’ badass queen magic. “This side zooms in on things,” she said. On things? I took the mirror from her and examined the magical side. But what my eyes beheld was merciless. Oh, cruel mother, why hadn’t you prepared me for what I was about to witness? Just like my mom had told me that having babies was a walk in the park, she neglected to tell me that looking at my face in a magnifying mirror in my forties would leave me in a fetal position beside her bed. Images of my childhood, my flawless skin—flash—images of my zitty, teenage skin—flash—images of my skin during pregnancy, again glowing and rosy as from childhood—flash—and now, an image of my forty-year- old skin with hairs, pores, peaks and valleys that I didn’t even know ex- isted. After regrouping myself, I took a deep breath and examined my face. I was both fascinated and horrified that something I look at in the mir- ror almost daily had developed its own ecosystem. The magic mirror re- flected a family of microscopic creatures, with a mother putting a baby to bed in a very large pore that left room for triplets. “It’s a little shocking the first time, isn’t it?” my mom said, laughing at my reaction. Now I felt like we were having the ‘losing your virginity’ talk. Yup, both were shocking, but also a bit painful, awkward, and very disap- pointing. As I watched her laugh, I realized that she wanted to witness the shock on my face that was likely on hers twenty years earlier. We were bonding over chin hairs. We could now clink them together like wine glasses, even high five with the extra-long ones.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 35 “Holy shit,” I said, not able to peel my eyes from the mirror. “I don’t want to look anymore, but I can’t help it!” And then, it started. I began to pluck hairs on my face, turning this way and that, gasping each time I discovered a new one at each angle; the stark daylight was both my friend and my enemy. I marveled at the com- plete masochistic satisfaction I was deriving, especially from plucking the thick ones with roots like turnips. I even ventured to my upper lip and realized that I was sorely mistaken when I thought it was under control after a couple years of waxing. And so, started my plucking era; I seized it with a vengeance and com- pulsively honed my tweezing skills on my husband’s ears, my teenage daughter’s eyebrows, off-colored threads of my shower mat, a hair from my neighbor’s dog’s furry mole, and even a small patch of my lawn. I also discovered that there was yet one more magic mirror: the rear- view mirror of my car. Even after believing I had gotten every single rogue hair on my face, my rear-view mirror magically revealed several that I had missed, like the true friend who privately points out the booger in her friend’s nose. Now, I know there are things like electrolysis if I really wanted to get serious, but so far, I’m managing well with tweezers. After the unexpected love affair with my rear-view mirror, I purchased a magnifying mirror, which I totally understand why you would not want one after reading about my experience. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Or perhaps you’d prefer to cultivate your chin hairs for the greater good of, say, donating them to hummingbirds for their nests—all the power to you. But I’ve actually gotten used to seeing not only my hairs but my skin close-up too; it may have even brought me to a further acceptance that yes, my skin is aging. It’s aging. Do I like that it’s aging? No, I don’t, but I’m okay with it. Perhaps better yet, it’s something we can connect with other women on like we might connect on a preference for Merlot versus Malbec. As an example, my close group of girlfriends from high school have started to

36 Pluck It Syndrome gather every summer in our hometown, and when I arrived last year, the first thing one of them anxiously said was, “Nic, do you pluck hairs on your chin?” Hallelujah! With my early menopause, I had assumed that it was just me—just as we had all feared being either the first or last one to get our period so many years ago. “Totally!” I said, pulling my bottle of vodka from the back of my minivan while fighting the sudden urge to clunk chins with her rather than give a high five.