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You Can’t Choose Your Family Syndrome OU CAN’T CHOOSE YOUR FAMILY SYNDROME Ycauses pain in your lower right abdomen, as well as jaw tightness and high blood pressure. At the same time, however, it can make your heart swell (with love, not a random fluid that needs to be drained) and convince you that the pain is almost worth it. Symptoms and signs Most people experience these complex symptoms differently, depending upon the family member on the phone or the holiday being celebrated. Thanksgiving and Mother’s Day seem to increase the problem, while Ar- bor Day and National Pancake Day can actually make patients feel slightly better. Although anyone can develop the syndrome, most often it occurs in people between the ages of 10 and 130. In addition to the primary symp- toms above, other signs may include: loss of appetite, too much appetite,

90 You Can’t Choose Your Family Syndrome staring for hours at your loved ones when you should be getting work done, tapping your watch in hopes that your loved ones will get the clue and leave, hair loss in the shape of crop circles, bloating, frequent urina- tion, and wondering if you said “I love you” the last time you spoke. The causes of this syndrome are strictly genetic.

BROTHERS AND SISTERS CAN DO ONE THING TOGETHER: ARGUE! by Lynn Colwell ONE OF THE things no one ever told me about having children is that between “goo-goo” and “I do” stretches 20 years of sibling battles that make the Civil War look like a celebration of brotherly love. “Will you stop that?” “Stop what?” “Stop breathing like a duck with sinus trouble.” “S-o-r-r-y. What am I supposed to do, hold my breath while I’m eat- ing?” “At least you could stop chewing so loud they can hear you in Latvia.” “How am I supposed to stop chewing while I’m eating dinner?” “Since when do you chew soup?” “Ma-a-a!” No topic is too sacred, dull or trivial. They argue over who looks uglier when they’re asleep, how long one can live without peanut butter, and who can burp louder. An all-day battle once raged over whether or not you could raise a sunken ship with ping pong balls. Every other word out of their mouths is “I’ll bet you…” I feel like I’m living at a race track. The only thing they don’t argue about is how nice it would be to be an only child.

92 You Can’t Choose Your Family Syndrome Personal habits are constantly under fire. “Haven’t you worn that shirt every day this week?” “So?” “It could walk to school without you.” “What about your hair?” “What’s the matter with my hair?” “It looks like a bunch of snakes doing the hula.” “At least I take a bath every month or two.” “Ma-a-a!” Every childcare book boasts a chapter on preventing sibling dissension. I’ve tried every suggestion. Believe me, they are about as helpful as treating a heart attack with curds and whey. 1. “Tell them to stop arguing.” (That’s like telling them to stop eat- ing.) 2. “Ignore their disputes.” (I have it on good authority that this ex- pert is both childless and hard of hearing.) 3. “Lock them out of the house with no clothes on and tell them they cannot come in until the argument is settled”. (Tell it to the judge when you are hauled into court for running a nudist colony within city limits.) 4. “Reason with them.” (Reason with a kid who wears shorts to school when it’s snowing because “everyone does?” Reason with a child who believes she invented the word “gross?”) 5. “Announce, ‘We are going to have peace around here even if we have to fight for it’ and hand them a set of boxing gloves.” (This one cost us. Not only did we buy three sets of gloves at $21.99 per set but my daughter slugged her older brother so hard that he ended up in the emergency room. He was out a tooth and we were out $200.) 6. “Let them know you have a right to peace and quiet in your own home.” (So?)

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 93 Having lost faith in the experts, I turned to my friend Marcia. Marcia’s dog Ralph, having licked the chicken liver off every cracker prior to a cocktail party, was punished by being forced to stand in the corner during the party. Frankly I didn’t think the dog looked terribly humiliated, but evidently, he’s a sensitive soul. In any case, it gave me an idea to try on the kids. I told them that the next time there was an argument, the “arguees” were to stand with their toes and chins touching the wall. Neither could move until they both apologized. The first time I said, “To the Wall,” the two offenders stood glaring at the wallpaper for about 20 seconds. “I’m getting a headache,” came the plaintive cry. “Just apologize to your sister and let her do the same and you can go.” “I’m never going to apologize to him. He can get married in this posi- tion for all I care,” my daughter hissed. “I’m fainting right now. I’m about to fall. Here I go. Get the smelling salts. OK, OK, I apologize,” said her brother. “Well, I don’t,” said his sister adamantly, and you can’t leave the wall until I decide to.” “Ma-a-a.” Well, it almost worked. I showed them the movie Gandhi in hopes they might be impressed by what could be accomplished through non-violence. Wrong again, Mom. We’d no sooner switched off the television when they started arguing about whether it’s possible to “act” sweaty. At dinner, they debated over whether the thousands of extras in the movie had to bring their own lunches to the set, and before bed, they almost came to blows over what Gandhi wore under his robe. The only thing that keeps me from sewing their mouths closed is the hope that one day their arguing abilities will earn them full college schol- arships—as members of the Debate Team.

MY GRANDMA IS COOLER THAN YOURS by Amber Rose Forbes WE OFTEN THINK of grandmas as lovely old ladies who play bridge, decorate their homes with collectible figurines and share stories about their cats—this is definitely my husband’s grandma—but not mine. My grandma was the coolest. My grandma still baked and did other granny-like things, but she also loved dark beer, cussed like a sailor if she lost a board game and didn’t shy away from conversations about sex or other “shocking” topics. I’d love to tell you all about this amazingly strong and independent woman’s life, which was full of mind-blowing life lessons, but we don’t have that kind of time. So here are just a few of her gems of wisdom that every young woman should know. 1) If you act weird enough no one will mess with you. My grandma lived in another town and on Friday I would take public transit to go stay with her for the weekend. Not unlike Little Red Riding Hood, at 16 I was able to attract plenty of unwanted attention. So, before that first trip, my grandma told me how to keep people from messing with me: she demonstrated how shaking my head and body wildly would deter people. Her point was that those bad people won’t mess with you if they

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 95 think you are weirder than them. 2) If you really want to get to know your partner, take them camping. My grandma always said the only way to really know someone is to get them outdoors and see what they are made of. I can attest to this because 6 months into dating my husband we went camping at the beach. I let him lead when we started setting up camp despite years of camping expe- rience because I didn’t want to be a complete ball-buster. This was in spite of the fact that I had been camping my whole life. It wasn’t my best idea, but I let him be the manly man. So, by the end of the first day, we had put our only tarp under the tent and spent the night next to a very smoky fire that barely burned. The next day when the rain came pouring down, we got honest with each other really fast. I admitted that I was an experienced camper and suggested we use the tarp as an overhead cover for the tent. Later some passersby took pity on the two of us huddled by the fire in soaking-wet hoodies and gave us some dry wood. I sweetly offered to get the fire going, since I had been building fires since I was 12. I did my magic and, poof— we had a roaring fire. After that, we opened up and my husband admitted he had only gone RV camping once in his life. To this day I am the official fire-maker and we have established our roles… gender roles be damned. So, the moral of the story is that people reveal their true strengths, weaknesses and communication skills when they are forced to rough it. 3) Take sex seriously, it has serious consequences. My grandma spoke to me very candidly about sex and not just about the birds and the bees. She told me all the details of how at 13 years old she had started making out with a cute boy, and before she knew it, she had had sex. She explained that it was great and exciting but that it was also difficult to understand that it had consequences. By 14 she had ended up pregnant and married, and by age 16 she was divorced with two kids. As

96 You Can’t Choose Your Family Syndrome awkward as it was to hear her talk openly about it, I was lucky to have a real person to discuss this during my teenage years. 4) Age does not define you. My grandma taught me this in two ways. First, she respected my opinion despite my teenage know-it-all mentality. Second, she loved to enjoy life. She had a huge crush on Sean Connery and would talk about it to every- one. She was frisky and would play grab-ass with my boyfriends to try to make them uncomfortable. Although looking back now it seems a bit in- appropriate, watching an old woman in a wheelchair chase them around was pretty damn funny. 5) We all have doubts but do it anyway. At the end of her life, my grandma was very honest about doubts, regrets, and those unanswered questions. She talked about doubting her abilities as a mother raising five kids all alone, but she figured it out and accepted the outcome. This was a shock to me because she was the pillar of our family. She was such an amazing woman and yet she still had doubts. We all do. Like how she worked at her job to pay the bills and worried she wasn’t doing the best for her kids. But she also took them on that im- promptu trip to Tillamook just because she was craving peach ice cream and wanted to put her feet in the sand. Her kids remembered the beach trip much more than the days she had to work and that is all that counts… she had doubts, but she did it anyway. These are little gems of wisdom from the coolest grandma ever, I hope they help keep you out of trouble!

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 97 TREATMENT Other than surgical removal, there is no treatment. Most sufferers learn to live with the pain, often relying heavily on alcohol and weed. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.



I’ll Be There for You Syndrome HESE DAYS, when we want to know what’s wrong with us, we Ttend to look it up on WebMD or one of the hundreds of other web- sites on the Internet. But many of us diagnose our friendship prob- lems based upon the 1990s television series, Friends, which is so Monica of us. Younger women may find themselves developing a new strain of the Syndrome that was introduced by the show, Sex in the City, while older women frequently develop the Golden Girls form. Symptoms and signs I’ll Be There for You Syndrome encompasses all the problems associated with reaching out to another human being and opening your heart to them. This can cause symptoms such as hurt feelings, jealousy, getting that sweater you loaned back with a stain on it but not bringing it up because that might strain your relationship, wondering if you could ever be more than friends like that one time in college, having to drive across

100 I’ll Be There for You Syndrome town to deliver hot tofu noodle soup to your sick vegan friend because she would do the same for you (at least that’s what she says), wondering if you’re actually BFFs or if she tells that to all her friends, and keeping cash bail money on hand at all times. Like measles, once you’ve caught this syndrome, chances are it will spread, and you’ll soon find yourself in complicated friendships with many others.

FEMALE FRIENDSHIPS: PART OF THE TRIBE… UNTIL YOU’RE NOT by Megan DeBell GOOD FEMALE FRIENDSHIPS give a girl a sense of belonging. “Hey! I’m part of your tribe! I like getting pedicures and going shopping too! No way! You like eating chocolate? No way!” I bring up these super- ficial examples because most of my close friends are women who are smart, motivated, and serious. Most of my girlfriends are doctors, and so am I. We’re at least slightly more likely to talk about patients (who too-often diagnose themselves with Dr. Google) than we are to get pedicures. Some of my best friendships were formed in medical school. There’s nothing like an intense lecture about, say, the details of the mitochondrial electron transport chain, to motivate equally intense binge drinking and fatty food indulgence to compensate and decompress. Truly. If you can’t bond over mitochondria, what can you bond over? Other girlfriends I met in residency. We spent shared overnights caring for patients—women in labor, lifelong smokers struggling to breathe, or dudes smoking, shooting, or snorting the latest powder or potion to get high. In residency, we decompressed with our women’s running club, “Dos Equis,” (named after our two X chromosomes—we were so nerdy!), dancing to our favorite Canadian band, The Paperboys, and eating lots of

102 I’ll Be There for You Syndrome chocolate chip blondies. You may not know it, but doctors are hiding in plain sight, all around you. You’d never guess our profession when we’re out and about to- gether—we look like anyone else. I’m told it’s quite common for people to mistake us for flight attendants or yoga teachers. These days, our get-togethers are more sedate. Just like normal girl- friends, we walk and chat at a park or go out to dinner, making sure we each get our turn to share stories about kids, travels, and relationships. If we haven’t seen each other in a long time, you may find us in the hot tub at the local “Naked Lady Spa” reminiscing about old times in other hot tubs, including that trip to “Vegas,” when our 20-something bodies got some sideways glances from some other hotel guests. Ah, youth. But, as the years tick by, my sense of belonging to my tribe of girl- friends has been tested. We aren’t in school or working together in the hospital anymore. We work in different places and we cross paths only when we make plans to do so. It’s not just our day-to-day work experiences that have diverged. Most of my doctor friends have children, and I don’t. I love my friends’ kids. It has been a deep joy in my life to watch them grow up. But I simply don’t belong to the tribe of doctor moms. From breastfeeding and pumping, to first steps, day care decisions, first days of school and temper tantrums, I’ve only navigated these things by association. When I meet a group of doctor moms for dinner or at a con- ference, I can’t contribute to whole swaths of conversation. I once pon- dered carrying a fake baby around with me and pretending to be a mother, but then I woke up and realized that I would have to diagnose myself with a personality disorder. I’ve also challenged my sense of belonging by diverging professionally. For the first chapter of my career, I worked for non-profit healthcare or- ganizations, practicing primary care for the whole family. I even delivered babies for several years (real ones). Then, I started to get interested in in- tegrative medicine. I went to different types of conferences, with herbal supplements in the sponsor hall rather than pharmaceuticals.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 103 I soon realized that to practice medicine the way I wanted to, I needed to work for myself. Now I’m a business owner. And, yep—you guessed it, most of my doctor friends are not business owners, nor do they think about health the same way I do. Awkward! And it’s not like they dream of loading their car seats up with business cards and supplements so they can fit in with my life. So now, when my friends talk about how frustrating the administra- tion, or the hospital, or the system is… I nod and listen, not truly under- standing. When I talk about the challenges of running a business, I get mildly dazed looks. I’ve also learned to keep my lips buttoned medically— I fear my friends’ skepticism and worry that they think my practice is too woo-woo. For me, salvation has come from several places. I have learned to hold tightly to those things my friends and I do have in common—our shared experiences, our shared history. And, despite our differences and our busy lives, I focus on how much we care about each other, or really, how much we love each other. I’ve also been branching out and meeting other people—with my hus- band and on my own. Some of my new friends are older, others younger, some understand my “brand” of medicine and many don’t have kids. You might imagine that us childless types all get together, take out our fake babies and pull pranks on people—I’ll leave that for you to investigate. Finally, I’ve found a sense of belonging to myself. It’s hard to describe. I might call it maturity, or self-acceptance, but it’s deeper than that. It’s being okay with being a little different and being part of a tribe of one. Still, I wouldn’t trade my friendships for anything. Our ultimate shared experience is that of being women in this world, and that is more than enough.

GREETING FRIENDS ACROSS CULTURES: HUGS, KISS OR HANDSHAKE? by Caitlin Huson IT’S HARD ENOUGH making friends when you’re an adult. Having to worry about how to greet them, especially when you move to another country, doesn’t make things any easier. When I moved to the United Kingdom, I thought things would be easy. After all, we speak the same language, and I was married to a Brit. I thought I had a leg-up. I also had watched pretty much every Princess Diana documentary and Hugh Grant romcom. This should be a piece of cake! I’ll make so many friends, I won’t have space to entertain them all! Or so I thought. It turned out to be a lot more difficult than I anticipated. Not only are Americans typically overly friendly and Brits more reserved at first, but also how we greet one another is very different. Let’s look at my greeting options: The Handshake My go-to greeting had always been a handshake, and while you can’t really go wrong with it, it’s surprisingly not the most widely used greeting in the U.K.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 105 When meeting someone for the first time, I would stick out my hand. It was anyone's guess whether the other person would leave it at that or also lean in for a kiss. On the cheek, not on the hand. Thankfully, I never made that social faux pas! I should add that in a work setting, we’d definitely shake hands when first meeting. Thank goodness I wasn’t residing in a country where kissing is the appropriate form of business greetings. Or worse, sealing business deals with a kiss. I’d probably be fired (or maybe promoted). The Cheek Kiss Some people prefer to kiss each other on the cheek. This is not really a full-on fish lip kiss, the one reserved for your significant other (after they’ve completed their chores, like a good boy). It's more of a cheek touch, with slightly puckered lips and a light kiss noise, all to give the illusion of a kiss but not really kissing. An air kiss, if you will. You know, the one reserved for your significant other when they don’t complete their chores, but you love them anyway, sort of. But sometimes they’d throw in the double kiss! As you’d pull away, you’d see them going for your other cheek. Greedy bastards! Personally, I’d rather reserve this for friends I’ve had for at least a decade. I've been in the situation where I've pulled away after the first kiss and the person said, “And one more for the other side!” Then I’d have to lean back in for the second kiss. I’d blush and say, “Oh, two kisses. Lucky me!” when I was really wondering why the heck we didn't leave it at just the one. Seems like it would have saved us both from the cringefest. I still have no idea which side you go for when cheek kissing. I usually take my cue from the person I'm greeting. Unfortunately, more often than not, we both do the bobbing motion until one of us turns their cheek in the opposite direction and contact can be made. When I met one of my husband’s friends for the first time, I accidentally bobbed the wrong way and planted a big smacker right on the man's lips. That wasn't weird at all…it also happened more than once, but thankfully not with the same friend. Needless to say, I’m very popular with my husband’s friends and

106 I’ll Be There for You Syndrome they won’t settle for a single cheek kiss now. The Hug Once I had made some solid friendships, I found myself falling back into the North American greeting I was most comfortable with: the hug. Auto- pilot would kick in and my arms would just fly around my friends’ necks. What followed was usually a slightly too tight hug with a foozled cheek kiss for good measure. Hopefully, none of my friends worried if I was trying to murder them with my affection. Although a hug requires more body contact, it somehow seems more comfortable and meaningful to me. Luckily, my American friends in the U.K. liked to hug as much as I did, so at least I knew how those greetings would go—without fear that I’d be strangled by their affection. Well, not without verbal consent and deciding on a safe word first. The Hello Sadly, no one in England has ever said, “How do you do?” to me, which is a real shame because I’ve watched enough period dramas to know ex- actly how to reply: “How do you do?” right back at ya. My curtsy has been perfected to the point where I’m mistaken for a member of the royal fam- ily (is what I tell myself). A casual modern day greeting in the U.K. is “Alright?” You might hear it in passing from a coworker or when you see someone you don't know very well in an informal setting. And just like the olden days’ “How do you do?” you can just repeat it back. Them: “Alright?” You: “Alright.” But in my American accent, it just sounded unnatural, as if I was trying too hard. During the first few years of living in England, I found myself replying with, “Hi, I'm good, thanks for asking. What about you?” Or “I'm ok, but I don’t understand whether to hug you or not…is that a no?” Whoever had just greeted me would stop in their tracks, with a sur- prised expression on their face, and then answer, “Fine, thanks.” By the

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 107 way, you are always “fine, thanks”. No one wants to know how you really are, which is a cultural similarity for Americans and Brits. I caught on to that one pretty quickly after a Brit promptly said, “Good day” and left as I was in the middle of informing him that the English fog was making me feel a little blue and that I really could use a good old American hug. These days, I give a courteous smile and a hello in response to “Al- right?” I'm the one who is taken aback when they occasionally follow it up with, “You ok?” Oh, right, a conversation! “Yes, fine, thanks,” I say, even if I’m not, and I carry on with my busi- ness. There are many phrases the British use that I find endearing, funny, or clever, and many that I’d like to incorporate into my vocabulary. “Alright?” is not one of them. The Wave I like the wave. It’s the one greeting I’ve mastered. And if the queen does it, then it must be ok. Seems like a good rule to follow in life, doesn’t it? The queen also drinks liquor twice a day at a minimum (I saw her weekly meal schedule online), so I’ll be adopting that rule also. Making friends as an adult is hard enough. Making friends in a new country is another level of hard and hugs don’t come easy outside of Amer- ica. I may have fumbled my way through introductions for much of my decade in Britain, but I still managed to make some lifelong friends there. It was when I was moving back to the U.S. and having to say the goodbyes that I realized how truly grateful I was for all those “alrights”, however awkward and bumbling they might have been.

108 I’ll Be There for You Syndrome TREATMENT When treating I’ll Be There for You Syndrome, it’s best to determine which form of the syndrome you have, based upon the television friend that best represents how you respond when infected with friendship. If, for example, you experience symptoms like Monica, Charlotte, or Doro- thy, your best bet when feeling overwhelmed by the syndrome is to clean something or redecorate. On the other hand, if you’re more like Phoebe, Samantha, or Blanche, you just need a night or twenty of hot sexual en- counters. Once you’ve treated your syndrome, apologize to your friends and take them out for drinks. Because when push comes to shove, you no matter how complicated, having this syndrome is better than not having it.





WORK



Imposter Syndrome MPOSTER SYNDROME happens to almost everyone at some Ipoint in their lives. The syndrome is primarily psychological and cen- ters around doubting your accomplishments and having a nagging fear of being exposed as a fraud, and not just because you lied on your Tinder profile and now your date IRL knows you are not a 5’10” super- model on a spiritual sabbatical. Symptoms and signs There are several different specific types of the syndrome, including: • Jobitis—doubting you have the skills for your job, no matter how long you’ve been doing it, and wondering when Todd will be pro- moted over you simply for having the right gender qualification; • Everyone Is Better Than Me—worrying that you can’t convince people you’re intelligent or funny or not a doormat;

114 Imposter Syndrome • Once I’m Dead, They’ll Even Criticize the Size of my Corpse—a double-edged feeling of joy and doom that comes from knowing that Aunt Joan will whisper about your jowls during your funeral, but you’ll be dead and won’t have to hear it; and • I’m A Woman & Doubting Myself is in My DNA—some scien- tists think women have two X chromosomes because the first one doubts its ability to do the job. You may have Imposter Syndrome if you find yourself sweating through your clinical strength deodorant when asked to speak up at a staff meeting or hold your own in a discussion of new parenting theories at a parent-teacher meeting. In addition to profuse perspiration, the syndrome is characterized by constantly feeling like a fake, a falsehood, a facsimile, a felon, a figment of your own imagination and sometimes, for no apparent reason, a frog who fancies fedoras. There are many other words beginning with F that can also occur to those with the ailment. Despite being “all in your head,” those with Imposter Syndrome often experience very powerful physical symptoms, including nausea, heart pal- pitations, high blood pressure, and teeth-grinding. If you wake up with teeth on your pillow, it is recommended that you call a medical profes- sional or the Tooth Fairy immediately.

IMPOSTER SYNDROME DOESN’T AFFECT OUR ABILITY TO SHOOT, BUT IT AFFECTS WHERE WE AIM by Erika Livingstone I’VE BEEN WRITING a novel in some fashion for literally my entire life. My husband, who is wonderful, gave me a sneaky little present for my birthday one year. He found an opportunity for novelists to pitch their work to publishers in Manhattan. I mean, thanks babe, but you basically gave me a lion on meth for my birthday. Super original, but a little dan- gerous, yeah? Way to give a girl a kick in the ass. Applications were accepted worldwide, but only 40 people were al- lowed in every year. Paradoxically, this hit my brain like a shot of mor- phine. I had more chance of getting killed by lightning after winning Lot- toMax than getting in. Still, a strange little feeling gradually built at the back of my skull. I didn’t want a jury to look at what my book is and think, “Ew, not that, not her.” After all the time I’d spent on writing this story, I didn’t want them to think it was trash. Within me, two forces were at war: I have to try versus I will fail. This self-doubt was aided by the fact that I suddenly lost my job. They laid off 70% of the department I was in. What made the remaining 30% worthy

116 Imposter Syndrome of their jobs while I was not? Were they smarter, less sarcastic, more aero- dynamic? Did I roll my eyes and sigh in meetings once or twice or ten times too often? I didn’t know, and it nagged me relentlessly. Late one night, I went to check my email. There waited a little message that I had forgotten to read. Thank you for your application. Oh, shit, I thought. It is clear you are a serious writer… OH SHIT. This is one of those brutal “thanks, but no thanks” rejec- tions that’s going to sting like a bitch. Quick, look away! Do I smell some- thing burning? Is the house on fire? Please let it be on fire. At least that way I could get out of reading the rest of this fucking sentence! …and one capable of writing a manuscript that editors and agents will want to see. We have decided to accept you into the Pitch Conference. I was on unemployment with no other income. I would have to travel across the continent. There were hotels to book. Flights. Cash to convert. Who the hell did I think I was? Sure, I was happy I got accepted, but that happiness was utterly crushed by this amorphous dark feeling that hovered above me like Godzilla in a black trench coat. I would have to commit and find a way to be the best that I could in front of an audience that could tell me my dreams were crazy. Arson aside, I had no choice but to go. The day I arrived in New York, some fierce little thing seemed to take me over. Something beyond the fear, the anxiety, and the toxic fright- based gases these feelings created in my stomach. Something that, quite honestly, didn’t give a fuck about my picky, needy shit. That fierce little thing wanted to eat the world. On the first day, the conference director gestured to the first man in the circle, at the opposite end of the room from me. He, as it happened, had two PhDs and a successful non-fiction writing career already. “All right, give us your pitch,” Mr. Director said. He did. A concise, minute-long pitch with good characters, clever de- tails, and strong emotion.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 117 “Jesus,” the director said, rubbing his eyes. “Are you serious?” We pro- ceeded to watch him eviscerate the poor Ph.D. for twenty minutes. One after another, for five hours, writers’ ideas were beaten so badly, I could practically see them lying dead all over the floor with their eyes X’ed out. Then it was my turn. The fierce ambition inside me had cowed con- siderably by the time it was my turn. But I read my pitch, even though my jaw was shaking. As I spoke, everyone in the room stopped doodling or looking out the window. They were listening to what I said. I only know this because when I looked up, I saw 20 pairs of eyes, wide open and staring at me. The director didn’t look at me. In fact, he didn’t say anything in my direction. “You see that?” he said to the room. “That is what a publisher wants to buy. The rest of you, take note.” Them? Take note of me?! For a second, I felt like a goddess. By the end of the conference, I had two manuscript requests from the biggest publishers in North America. I came home victorious. I proved to myself that I can succeed…Right? Nope. I spent the next six months trying to get a job as a temp, and ultimately, I failed. Even at that. For one day, I was a goddess. The next day, I was a reject. And the cycle started over. But I can say this. The conference taught me a great deal. And even if your goals don’t involve sitting in front of the editor for HarperCollins, there are four great lessons for all of us: 1. A sense of unworthiness doesn’t affect our ability to shoot, but it affects where we aim. It doesn’t make us any less capable of the things that we do. Self-doubt has nothing to do with how capable we are. But it tells us to aim low, to take the easiest, safest path. 2. This same sense of unworthiness can be used to your advantage. The more you stress about the small things, the more you over- prepare. So, when you eventually wind up on a path with some obstacles, you’ve already imagined the worst-case scenario and are

118 Imposter Syndrome prepared for it. Unlike those other chumps who had the gall to go through their life with a modicum of confidence. 3. We all fight self-doubt on a daily basis, and we can defeat it. You’ve done it. You’ve probably even done it once today. 4. The key to success is three words: “I don’t care.” Seriously. Give it a shot. “You’re not good enough.” I DON’T CARE. “You’re just going to embarrass yourself.” I DON’T CARE. “It’ll be too much work.” I DON’T CARE. “It will be too hard.” I DON’T CARE. In the end, it doesn’t matter if you’re not good enough, or if it’s too hard, or if people are watching. You don’t have to care about any of that. Because none of that shit is allowed to stop you from trying. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. Now go, my friend. Two middle fingers in the air, all the way to glory.

MURDERED, MANHANDLED, MUGGED? NOT ME! I'M NOT GOOD ENOUGH by Kelly Benson THE QUICKEST ROUTE between two points is a straight line. The quickest route between fantasy and reality is a straight up lie. I’m an im- poster: and so can you! Self-loathing makes the world go round. Fraudu- lent is the new black. Fake it till you make it or until you get caught. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story. When I was in my early 20s, I attended a women’s safety presentation at the local police station with a couple friends; there were 40-ish women of various ages and walks of life. While there, the female officers went over the basic safety fundamentals for walking alone on the street or in a parking lot, i.e. no headphones, no ponytails, be aware of your surroundings and have your keys ready to be utilized as a makeshift shank if the need should arise. But all throughout the presentation, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was thinking a little too highly of myself. Did I need to be there? Am I too quick to assume that any potential predator would single me out as his “prey of the day?” Sure, I was cute, but so was every other woman there. Sure, I was just as helpless as the next distracted girl with the audacity to walk around her

120 Imposter Syndrome city at night, so why didn’t I feel like I was good enough to be abducted? I’ve never had to use the pepper spray I carry in my purse. My younger sister had a quasi-stalker during her first few semesters of college, yet there I was at 24, and I had never had one! Do murderers take into consideration whether or not you have a great personality? Where do these serial killers get their confidence from? Out of a possi- ble 10, most of them would be rated 4’s at best. Yet, they have an incred- ibly inflated taste and somehow believe they deserve victims ranging from 9’s and 10’s. Was I jealous of some hypothetical POS because I might not be his first choice as a victim, robbing me of being highlighted in Netflix’s next true crime documentary? Would he really be that picky? I mean, what was so great about him? How was he good enough to deserve to violate me? If my collective hours of therapy have taught me anything, it's that you must reach out to find an outside source, something out of your control to blame all of your problems on. It may require you to truly dig deep and soul search, but the answer is there. Normally I’d blame my parents, but in this instance, I went with the internet. Millennials have weaponized social media as a way to receive wide- spread validation while simultaneously passing out inadequacies to its us- ers. This is all accomplished while scrolling in their sweatpants. We are all living double-lives online and are more than happy to reside in the shared delusion. It’s important to remember you are only seeing the moments people want to be projected, which have most likely been cropped and filtered within an inch of their lives. Luckily, as they were passing out the rape whistles, I remembered a creepy man who clearly needed a shower and an exorcism calling me ‘Boo- Boo’ in the QFC parking lot earlier that week. He had yelled from his car that I had nice legs and asked a crude question about the connecting parts of my anatomy. This gentleman reminded me that no matter how out of place I may feel at times or that I don’t stack up to others, I lack nothing, and I am enough, I only ever have to be myself. What an insightful guy. My generation seems to be brimming with self-confidence while at the

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 121 same time possessing zero self-worth. Think of everything we could each accomplish if we stopped settling and truly believed that we were deserv- ing of the best for ourselves, just like a murderer feels entitled to attack 9’s and 10’s.

122 Imposter Syndrome TREATMENT This syndrome is best approached with the old “If you can’t beat them, join them” approach. Rather than resisting your feelings of being a fake, go with the flow and fake everything from listening to long boring presen- tations to orgasms. Dye your hair bright green, stuff your bra, lie about your weight to the DMV, claim to be a Nobel Prize-winner or the reigning Miss Universe. Doctor your old SAT scores. Tell your date you are TOO a 5’10” supermodel.





I Hate My Job Syndrome HY WOULD ANYONE dislike getting up at the crack of Wdawn, driving through rush hour traffic while applying eye- liner and putting on Spanx, sitting through meetings that make high school math class seem like a party, and doing it all for just enough money to afford rent and a gym membership you never use be- cause you’re exhausted all the time? Really, it’s the people who love their jobs we should be worried about. They’re probably doing more drugs than the rest of us. Symptoms and signs While hating a low-grade job is normal, it is important to know when hatred has reached a fever pitch, in order to prevent permanent problems such as unemployment and the inability to form complete sentences with- out ugly crying. For those in office settings, it’s time for professional help if you’ve ever carved a pentagram into your desktop or worn both the F

126 I Hate My Job Syndrome and U keys off your office keyboard. If you’re in retail, worrisome signs include dressing in camouflage so people wanting your service can’t find you or yelling, “The customer is NOT always right” before you go to sleep at night. And anyone working in construction or manufacturing should look out for fantasies about turning any tool into a murder weapon. Despite some media reports, blaming Millennials for I Hate My Job Syndrome (as well as for the death of plastic straws and monogamy, not to mention the creation of Avocado Toast), chances are, this syndrome has been around since the beginning of humankind. It’s a fairly safe bet nomadic people chasing their goats across the tundra weren’t whistling “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It’s Off to Work We Go” with a smile on their faces. And don’t get us started on how much Joan of Arc despised putting on her armor every day.

SO, YOU WANNA BE A BUSINESSWOMAN? 5 TIPS FOR BREAKING THE GLASS CEILING WITHOUT GETTING CUT by Katherine Shaw LET'S TALK BUSINESSWOMAN with a capital B, a la Boss ladies, and Big Bitches. Get used to being called the latter. I totally understand this dream, for the Businesswoman is awe-inspiring. The sight of one al- ways left me wondering “What kind of sorcery do you practice?” and more importantly, “May I join your coven?” The realm of Businesswoman is not for the weak of heart. Trust me— right before resigning from my first management gig, I was referred to a cardiologist after fainting into some very hard concrete. Though I gained entry into the Businesswoman domain, I lasted less than a year due to issues such as 1) wanting a life outside of work and 2) hating my boss. During this brief Businesswoman stint, I gained insight on what it takes to #ladyboss and I’m passing along these tips to you. I’m not even charging! But maybe I should, hmm. Below are some very important con- siderations to undertake before committing yourself to the Business- woman path:

128 I Hate My Job Syndrome #1 Get Real with Yo Self Can you fully commit yourself to Businesswomanhood? Take a long look at your obligations and prepare to commit 20 hours of the day to your career. A “normal” person might designate 8 hours a day to work. How- ever, the Businesswoman sleeps less, answers emails at 4 a.m., and dreams of Excel spreadsheets. Now is the time to inform friends and family that you’re “phasing out” of quality time together. Not seeing you is really for their benefit. Six months into the Businesswoman regiment, they won’t recognize this jit- tery, slightly furious woman before them that talks non-stop about spread- sheet nightmares. You won’t recognize this person either, but THIS JIT- TERY FURY WOMAN THAT HAS SPREADSHEET NIGHT- MARES IS YOU! #2 Maybe Partake in Cannibalism Are you hungry for that next promotion? While on the Businesswoman path, you'll face being perceived as a power-hungry bitch when demand- ing a fair salary. Making matters more difficult is that you’ll earn 30% less than any man within eating distance. Oh, you will also be called a man- eater if you ever correct a male colleague. Perhaps eating your competition is a better resolution for the gender pay gap. #3 Maintain That Costco Membership We’ve confirmed that you’re mentally hungry, but are you also, like, phys- ically hungry? This is to be expected since long commutes and back-to- back meetings don’t allow for actual meals. Breve breakfasts and latte lunches may satisfy some, but a liquid diet leaves this hypoglycemic lady dangerously close to committing cannibalism (review tip #2 for additional encouragement). I managed to stay relatively nourished by purchasing boxes of Costco protein bars. I highly suggest keeping a box in both your car and work desk. Protein bars deserve more credit, for they’re inexpen- sive (cough cough—pay gap) and saved several coworkers from enduring a hunger-induced lecture that starts with “Per my last email…”

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 129 #4 Get Fit and Stay Furious Physical fitness is only one aspect of the Businesswoman Obstacle Course. Yes, Running Errands That Aren’t Part of Your Job Description will hap- pen. Yes, Carrying the Weight of Your Male Coworkers will happen as well. But in order to hit the finish line and land that promotion, you need the mental cool of a sociopathic CEO (forgive me for this redundancy). If you’re pissed off at a coworker, remember to hold a smile, perhaps for hours, and calmly say things like “No worries” and “I don’t mind, I’m only a woman.” Eventually, your facial muscles will adhere to your ulterior motives; smile through all the bullshit, gain their trust, and when you fi- nally land that promotion, test those toned facial muscles for the smileathon needed to withstand board meetings. If your Businesswoman resolve is starting to fade, a career-saving exercise I used to practice was a game called Remember That Asshole. This game consists of reliving each time Todd half-assed his part of our team project. Or that time Derrick called me sweetie and suggestively lifted his coffee cup my way. #5 Throw in the Towel and I Don't Mean Laundry Quitting is always a viable option, in my humble opinion. Quitting has a bad rap in our society, and I used to buy into the SUCCEED ALWAYS AND NEVER GIVE UP mantra. What changed? I believe it was the fifth trip to the ER that cinched it, after realizing I'd spent more time in the ER than on my personal hobbies. Of course, my only hobbies were track- ing my career path and investigating promotional opportunities. The most important tip here is to be REALLY honest with yourself: is this the life you want? Some women are capable of succeeding in high-stress ca- reers. Some women can gracefully combat bullshit without pissing off an- yone, a skill that I will probably never master. If you find yourself miser- able, if the Businesswoman path is negatively impacting your health and overall wellbeing, then quit! I now consider myself a Contemporary Businesswoman, a version of

130 I Hate My Job Syndrome lady-meets-business that society will need to prepare itself for. Why dedi- cate my life to a system that doesn’t provide fair pay, harassment-free work environments, nor maternity leave? I mean, come on! My hypothetical child is going to be a vital economic resource when current politicians are elderly and begging for adequate funding for their end of life care. Opting out of this circle-jerk of a labor force is the best Businesswoman move I’ve made in the past decade. There’s that old saying “If you can’t beat them, join them” but I’m a millennial and I’m going to do as I like (since everyone hates millennials anyways). I say, if you can’t beat them, quit and become your own boss. My fellow womenfolk are ditching their sexist employers in exchange for creating their own businesses. So, perhaps women no longer need to break society’s legendary glass ceiling. The way I see it, the glass ceiling is already cracking due to millennia of stagnant business practices that could have been avoided with the in- troduction of fresh menstrual blood i.e. more women in the workforce. I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna watch this old ceiling slowly crumble from the comfort of my home office.

15 ALARMING SIGNS YOU’RE IN A CRAPPY JOB by Leigh Anne Jasheway JUST LIKE A bad relationship, sometimes it can be hard to decide if a job is awful or if we’re just not trying hard enough. The answer is almost always, “It’s not you. It’s the job.” As someone who has been in the workforce for more than 40 years, I can assure you that if you find yourself in any of the following situations (all of which happened to me), you need to break up with your job. If you’re timid, just ghost your job for a few weeks until the calls asking you to return to work stop. You know you’re in a bad job when: 1. You work with a narcoleptic on “shared projects,” all of which you have to do on your own because he always falls asleep mid-sentence. Also, every piece of paper he touches is damp from drool. 2. Your boss makes you touch his sweaty stomach every day after he gets back from the gym. If you refuse, he grabs your hand and slides it across his slimy, flabby belly. You lose a lot of weight because you don’t have an appetite for 8 months. 3. The new boss—a child psychologist—not only makes you do all her non-therapy work for her, but you hear her telling young children

132 I Hate My Job Syndrome in her office to “grow the fuck up.” 4. You are not allowed to talk. Or hum. Or whistle. The old woman in charge (whom I remember as at least 400 years old, although she was probably 60) won’t tolerate any sass from the young folk and talking, humming, and whistling fall into the category of “sass.” You’re worried about thinking too loudly. 5. Similarly, you work for someone who believes that on a scale of 0 (silence) to 10 (man screaming in support of some sports team), the appropriate volume level for women is 1. This makes it so much easier for the men to mansplain and manterrupt without straining their diaphragms. 6. The boss is paranoid and makes you dismantle your typewriter (yes, I AM old, why do you ask?) every night because he’s afraid that peo- ple will come in and type stuff on it. He insists you lock the carriage (part of a typewriter, for those of you who have never seen one) in your credenza and give him the key. When you try to get your cre- denza key back the next day, you can’t find him because he’s usually hiding somewhere. 7. You help to write the first smoke-free policy for a university (in 1989!). As a reward for this, you are assigned as the “complaint line” for anyone angry about no longer being able to light up in their office. 8. Your male boss absolutely cannot seem to make eye contact with women because his pupils dart immediately to their boobs. You hatch a plan with the women to stare at his crotch every time any of you talk to him, but he enjoys it. 9. Your boss tells you that you are “too creative for a state organization” and regularly condemns you for “having ideas” because ideas just lead to more work for him. 10. You have to convince a group of prisoners to adopt healthier habits like working out and eating more vegetables. WHILE THEY’RE IN PRISON! 11. Your co-worker brings her baby to work and keeps the kid in a

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 133 drawer in her file cabinet. You are expected to ignore the situation. 12. Due to circumstances beyond your control, you “accidentally” steal 20 hamsters slated for experimentation and then have 20 hamsters you don’t know what to do with. 13. While conducting a drug survey of local police and sheriff’s offices, one sheriff shows you the marijuana plants he grows in the atrium so his officers “know what to look for.” You have to try not to laugh because you’re afraid you’ll lose your job or get arrested for disre- specting a police officer. 14. Finally, after years of doing your best work and being mostly unrec- ognized for it, you get a new office suite for you and your secretary. There are big windows overlooking the park. The building services crew comes in and erects a 6-foot tall cubicle around your secretary’s space because only people at a certain job level are allowed a window office. You keep dismantling the walls but return the next morning to find them up again. 15. You walk in on the Vice President of the organization you work for having sex with the HR Manager. That will teach you to show up 10 minutes early for a meeting. You can never sit at that coffee table again without spraying it down with disinfectant and spermicide. For good measure, here’s one way you know you’re in a great job: You accidentally break your boss’s foot by running over it with your chair on your second day of the job, and she laughs it off!

134 I Hate My Job Syndrome TREATMENT Fortunately, there are many non-surgical options for improving the symp- toms of I Hate My Job Syndrome. These include: starting your own busi- ness, finding 6 side gigs that you only hate 1/10 as much as your current gig, deciding Capitalism is the root of all evil and spending your days gen- erating angry memes on Instagram, living “off the grid” deep in the woods and occasionally being mistaken for Sasquatch, or living with a rich pa- rental unit (if you don’t have a rich parent, log onto a dating website for seniors and check for those with photos taken in front of a mansion or yacht. Caveat: If you contact anyone, make sure you let them know you’re looking for a daddy (or a mommy), not a sugar daddy).