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Pay Up Syndrome AY UP SYNDROME (PUS) usually occurs in women between Pthe ages of 18 and 118 and its symptoms include: (1) a credit score lower than the number of calories in an iced latte; (2) a checking account that can best be described as a gaping black hole of noth- ingness; (3) a student loan officer perched in a nearby tree; and (4) a ring- ing in the ears which is not tinnitus, but rather the sound of your entire paycheck in nickels rattling around in your purse. Symptoms and signs Although there is some disagreement among scientists for what causes PUS, the primary risk factors for the syndrome include: • Being female • Being a black, white, Native American, Mexican-American, Asian- American, or any other race female

138 Pay Up Syndrome • Being a lesbian, queer, questioning, bisexual, or trans female • Being a sedentary or fit female • Being a married, single, widowed, or divorced female, and any fe- male with an “its complicated” relationship status • Being a living female If only we could find some connection. Some medical specialists have suggested that Pay Up Syndrome is en- tirely psychological and rooted in penis-pay envy. Others suggest that there are long-term physical consequences that arise from women being paid much less than men across all professions. These physical symptoms may include neck strain from trying to read others’ pay stubs and dislo- cated shoulders from holding male co-workers upside down and shaking out all their loose change.

WOULD YOU LIKE ROOM FOR CREAM WITH YOUR CRIPPLING STUDENT DEBT? by Tashi Farmilo-Marouf WE GROW UP on a diet of societal rhetoric. From the time we are little, we are dictated to—either outright or through a thousand sublimi- nal daggers to the brain. We are told what to eat, what to wear, who to emulate, what to listen to, what is best for us and what we need (like a hole in the head). And like the good little sheepies we are, we obey orders. We fall into line. We toe the line. We walk in line and, some of us who are fed up with lines, end up walking the line. Many of us pursue higher education with student debt, in search of a silver lining. We’re instructed that if we just go to university, our lives will be all set. We’ll get a good job. We’ll be respected. We’ll use all of those teeming brain cells that so desperately want to be fired up for some pur- pose other than picking what to binge watch on Netflix tonight. Don’t most of us yearn to be of use to the world, to make a footprint, one that only higher learning can provide? The only problem is that most of us can’t afford the nine or fifteen, or even twenty-five thousand dollars a year for university tuition. So we bor- row. We borrow for tomorrow, hoping tomorrow we’ll be better off than

140 Pay Up Syndrome we are today because let’s face it: most of us leave university worse off. We leave strapped with a student debt of around forty thousand dollars, on average. That’s enough to take that dream vacation, in a new wardrobe, with matching luggage and a few new cubic zirconium necklaces to boot! And, thanks to that economics class I took, I know that forty-thousand doesn’t stop growing after we leave school—it comes with a pal called interest. Interest is like your super-needy mother-in-law who never stops calling, texting or coming over unannounced. You know, the one who walked in on you and your husband in bed last week in the middle of some kinky, flagrante delicto. Interest, it just keeps coming. It doesn’t leave you alone when you can’t make a payment; it just gets bigger, like a tumor. But, unlike a tumor, you can’t just go to the doctor and get it chopped off. It’s with you until you pay it off. When we’re done throwing our graduation caps in the air, we can join the thousands of other graduates in search of that perfect job to match our very practical degree in the arts or philosophy, like English Lit! Like the vast majority of graduates with student debt, we may end up taking a job at a lower level than we expected—in the service industry, perhaps. Mac- Donald’s and Starbucks always seem to be hiring. But no worries, we’ll be talented enough to recite Shakespeare as we prepare the next customer’s macchiato. The silver lining here is that the banks who lent us the money to be- come the world’s brightest baristas are really happy that we’ve bettered ourselves! Not only are they raking in every extra dollar that we earn from our minimum wage jobs, but they are also getting expert service as they order their morning coffee from us, educated and articulate coffee-making machines that we are. As they sit in Starbucks checking the latest stock options and looking over their own hefty bank balances in the Cayman Islands, we can flash a smile in our nifty black uniforms, wondering where it all went wrong. We’re not only serving fresh java to fuel humanity with our higher knowledge; we’re serving the 1%. And I don’t mean milk.

A CALL TO END (THE REAL) WELFARE FRAUD by Jennifer Sparklebritches IN-BETWEEN WONDERING whether I’ll have reproductive rights tomorrow and faking interest in my kid’s latest Minecraft achievement, I’ve been thinking ahead to the next election and how important it is to me to elect candidates who will help end the rampant welfare fraud in America. No, I’m not talking about people who give false information in order to collect money they don’t need and live high off the government hog. If you think you can live high “off the hog” on government assistance— you’ve obviously never been on government assistance. But for the purpose of staying on point (something I do almost as well as my pubescent tween mops floors), the welfare fraud I’m talking about is being committed by parents who earn high salaries but pay so little in child support that their children must either rely on public assistance or learn about Kickstarters really early in life. Note to self: suggest a GoFundMe class project at the next Par- ent/Teacher conference. My ex-husband is a great example: he makes over $200,000 per year and pays $331 per month in child support for our two children. $331 total, not each. Do you have any idea how much food two active, freakishly

142 Pay Up Syndrome tall middle school boys eat?? They’re like Hobbits: breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, second lunch… $331 is about half our grocery budget. I, on the other hand, make $36,000 per year and for the past six years I have relied on free Medicaid healthcare, SNAP (food stamps), and sub- sidized housing just to make ends meet and provide for our children’s basic needs. And I’m talking 1999 basic needs. There is no Xbox, Fitbits, or eyebrow threading in our family budget. It’s also important to note that my ex-husband has a large salary thanks, in part, to me. Thanks to me, he was able to continue building his career while producing two children. (In fact, he was so focused on his career that my first ultrasound was done at his vet clinic with my back on a cold, metal, pet exam table. True story. Woof.) While married to me, he left his home and children and lived in an- other city for 5 days out of the week to pursue a career-advancing oppor- tunity. (I stayed behind to care for the house and kids because I traded all my feminist ideals in exchange for our sons getting to keep their foreskins. Also, a true story.) And finally, I introduced him to and facilitated a working relationship with the veterinarian whose practice he now owns. And can you believe not so much as a fruit basket from either of them? Side note: my $36,000 per year salary is about $800 a month more than I made previously, thanks to a new job. This wage increase means I no longer qualify for most of the benefits mentioned, which equals a net loss of $500-$800 per month. The field of social services refers to this phenomenon as the fiscal cliff. I refer to it as the “Shit, now what??” So, let’s do some math. I know—I don’t want to either, but sometimes, you have to get out the calculator and crunch some numbers. Conserva- tively, my kids and I received an average of $250/mo in food benefits, $250/mo in Medicaid benefits, and $600/mo in housing subsidies. Add those numbers and you get $1100 or $13,200 a year, which adds up to $79,200 over six years. That’s almost $80,000 of welfare fraud committed by my ex-husband in the names of our children and myself. There is no reason my ex can’t pay enough child support to cover these

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 143 expenses. His current monthly child support payment is less than 2% of his salary, or basically what he spends on video games (because he’s a big boy and you can’t tell him when to go to bed or what to do with his money!). The subsidies I received before becoming too “wealthy” to qual- ify are equal to about 6% of his monthly salary. I’m thinking he’d survive. So yes, my ex-husband should abso-fucking-lutely spend 6% or more of his monthly income to ensure a reasonable quality of life for his children and keep them from selling their Legos on eBay in order to afford fresh vegetables and new underwear. Having a child means choosing to be responsible for that child’s health, safety, and emotional well-being for a minimum of 18-21 years. I know. I have that tattooed on my thigh. (Use a condom!) It is outrageous that any child with a parent who earns a high income should have to rely on government assistance to get their basic needs met. This isn’t just my gripe; too many parents are in my exact same posi- tion. My friend group includes several women (all employed full-time) whose exes’ incomes are 5-20 times higher than theirs, yet still, only pay child support equal to a small fraction of what it actually costs to raise those children. Don’t even get me started on gender pay inequities. I could go back to court and try to get a better deal, but court is more expensive than the Wiccan spell caster I found on Craigslist. Besides, ac- cording to the standard child support calculations in my state, my ex-hus- band is only underpaying by about $200 per month. I don’t know how or who came up with a bullshit calculation that says a parent who makes $18,000 a month should only pay $545 a month in child support for two children when the other parent makes one sixth that income, but I’m fairly certain they had a penis and pants with pockets. These fathers are not deadbeat dads, at least not according to the tra- ditional definition. Maybe we should call them rogue dads because they feed on the life force of women they procreate with and leave their kids to be raised by these half-dead shells of the people we once were. It’s time for society to stop giving them a pat on the back just for sending a tiny check every

144 Pay Up Syndrome month, just for doing some half-assed parenting, paying child support equal to their latte budget and taking their kids to Disneyland once a year. If I had the time, money, or energy, I’d march in the streets and sit bleeding my flow on the reception area chairs of my local lawmakers so that all single mothers could get the money coming to them. But for now, I’ll write and educate… and maybe drink too much wine, which I can finally afford, now that I’m too rich to get food stamps.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 145 TREATMENT For women who have found that money makes the world only go part of the way around, it is important to seek solutions that don’t involve rob- bing a bank or learning about Bitcoin. On second thought, since we’ve already tried everything else…



AGING



Personal Global Warming Syndrome ERSONAL GLOBAL WARMING SYNDROME (PGWS) is Pcommon in women over 50, especially if they are living on Earth. Any female who regularly blows into her own cleavage or no longer has buttons on any of her blouses most likely has it. Extreme cases may occur as well, such as when women replace the family refrigerator with a restaurant-sized walk-in freezer or drag their family on a 4-week Alaskan cruise in December. It is estimated that 95 out of 100 women will experience PGWS as they get older, while the other 5 usually have to don a parka and mittens to survive sharing a home or office with a syn- drome sufferer. Symptoms and signs Women in the beginning stages of PGWS can frequently be seen donating

150 Personal Global Warming Syndrome turtlenecks and heavy sweaters to Goodwill or hanging out in the frozen food section of their local supermarket pressing pints of Haagen-Dazs against their chest, thus stimulating the economy in unexpected ways. Once someone has reached the “I sweat so much, I slide off the furniture” stage, PGWS has reached its peak and an all-terry cloth wardrobe is strongly advised. Like overactive bladder syndrome and Lake Tahoe Mystery Disease, in decades past, women with PGWS usually suffered in silence. Fortunately, today with advancements in self-esteem and sisterhood, this is no longer the case. Just try to get us to shut up about it.

IS IT WARM IN HERE OR IS IT THAT PESKY PERIMENOPAUSE AGAIN? by Tashi Farmilo-Marouf THINGS ARE CHANGING inside my body. I suspect it’s that peri- menopause thing setting in. Like a special kind of global warming for women over 40. It started with hot flashes. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my body feels like it’s on fire. I start sweating profusely. I grab the nearest piece of paper that I can turn into a fan. If I’m in the grocery store, I stick my head in the freezer compartment and get really familiar with what’s on sale—fro- zen vegetables, ice cream, or maybe the frozen pizza. It’s good to take your time when shopping in the frozen foods section. You never know what ingredients went into those Eggo waffles. It is fine to have hot flashes when I’m sitting at home in front of the fan, but it’s mortifying when it happens in front of other people. I went to apply for a passport one morning; I was standing at the counter with the agent on the other side, and I started sweating buckets. Drops of sweat were hitting the paper I was trying to sign while I was wiping my forehead with the back of my arm. Then the official started asking me more serious questions. I think sweating is usually a sign of fear and it must have made him think twice about this dripping human sprinkler system standing in

152 Personal Global Warming Syndrome front of him. I wasn’t being dishonest, I swear! I was just having a hot flash at the worst possible moment! Sometimes I have to stand up and speak in front of groups as part of my work at an organization I belong to. That’s usually when the hot flashes and sweats hit. Summer or winter, my head gets saturated. There goes the hairdo I worked on for ages. I like to look my best, but instead, I end up looking like I just stepped out of the shower with dripping wet hair. People ask me if I’m alright. And the questioning looks aren’t nearly as helpful as a towel would be at those moments. Maybe I should start wearing a turban, I think to myself, that way no one will see my drenched head. I figure, there is a light at the end of the tunnel: as an overly fertile woman and mother of five, I once asked my doctor, “How many years will I have to worry about getting pregnant?” I was in my twenties at that time. He guessed I would be well into my fifties and still needing birth control. Being a walking goddess of fertility comes with its downsides. Now that I’m nearing forty-one, this peri-menopause thing means I’ll have less to worry about in the future. As this baby factory that I call a body goes out of business sooner than expected, I will one day be non-productive! Not having to think about birth control anymore will be a serious plus for me. I’ve always preferred it bareback anyway! I just never liked worrying about the possible consequences to my personal enjoyment. Who wants to think about raising a child for twenty plus years while they’re getting it on? I want the pleasure without the stress. Is that too much to ask for? Woohoo, I say. Menopause? Bring it on!

AN ENCHANTING RANT BY THE INVISIBLE MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN by Janet Livingstone WHEN I WAS YOUNG, I didn’t like middle-aged women because they were nasty, rude and aggressive. Even now, I have trouble with mid- dle-aged women. The resting faces of middle-aged women look like terri- ble scowls. They yell at you in the supermarket line when you’re not mov- ing fast enough or taking too long to pay. I remember once banging my thumb and being in terrible pain in the checkout line. I was desperately calling my doctor to see if I could get an x-ray. The battle-ax behind me was very annoyed. “Are you in line?” she asked with an acid snarl. “Yes”, I replied. “Then move it!” she barked. I was 40 then. Now I’m 55 and suddenly, I get why middle-aged women act the way they do: You change. Your body betrays you. Meno- pause is like puberty but in reverse. Your boobs creep like slowly melting ice cream cones down your belly, you get rolls of fat on your back, your waist decides to be wider than your hips and your knees get bigger. If that doesn’t depress you, the thinning hair, insomnia, hot flashes, and lower energy will. You may be consumed by terrible regret for not marrying/do- ing/discovering, etc. whoever or whatever it was you wanted earlier in life. To make things worse, you need half a tube of lube just to want a man

154 Personal Global Warming Syndrome anywhere near you. That is, if you even give a damn because your libido has suddenly gone the way of the landline and the telephone book. A gorgeous Frenchman on Match.com is interested in you? Ha! You’d rather eat dark chocolate and watch Breaking Bad. Seriously. And that’s actually a good thing because if that same Pierre LeFrancais walked by you on the street, he wouldn’t so much as look at your shoes. He wouldn’t notice that you are covered head-to-toe in Eileen Fisher linen, that you’re wearing a fresh mix of lemon and patchouli perfume, or that you just got a killer haircut. Because now you’re invisible. Ever wonder why older women wear bright, garish colors? Yup. Be- cause the rest of them are gray, sagging and shriveled. The last time they got up close and personal with a pheromone was when their dog was in heat in 1997. You want to go Latin dancing and feel sexy again, but after one drink at the ballroom bar, you’re not sure whether you’d rather dance salsa or eat it. And if you do decide to take a whirl, one of your knees is bound to get a little gimpy on you. And did I mention that everything starts to make you bloated? Every- thing good, that is, like beer, sugar, bread, and other normal stuff. To those over 50 who manage to stay slim by working out and giving up carbs, I say: are you NUTS? What’s left? No sex, you don’t feel good, and now you’re going to give up French toast, chocolate croissant, Pilsner and fries?? Yep, pants with elastic waists were most definitely invented by some woman over 50. Your children won’t stay children and they won’t go away either. At 55-ish, our children are just old enough that they should be inde- pendent. Except that they’re not. And they still need us. Especially those of us who thought we were cool, tough career women and waited till our mid-thirties or later to have kids. In contrast to when they were little, our kids’ problems are now com- plicated and usually involve being bailed out financially because their housemates left them with a $500 electricity bill, they can’t pay their rent, or they haven’t been to the financial aid office to pick up their scholarship.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 155 The thrill is gone. And, of course, the husbands of middle-aged women are gone, bored with us. Or husbands become boring and stupid, have bad breath, etc. and we just kind of don’t want them around the house anymore. Or, like mine, they’ve escaped in a rental car with someone whose waist measurement is smaller than my left thigh. Regardless, they can’t get it up the way they used to, and this freaks them out and makes them want to get away from us wives, their reminder of a more potent past. Younger men may be curious about us and want to get involved…but have you tried making interesting conversation with a 29-year-old lately?? Do you really want to go ice-climbing, drink a flight of IPAs, and say “dude” a lot? Making a living is not as exciting as you thought it was. The workplace doesn’t want you anymore because technology evolves so fast that you may not know the difference between YouTube and a fallopian tube. Your boss is a 24-year-old man who is afraid to tell you what to do but he doesn’t actually believe you can do anything at all. You remind him of his aunt who never plucked her chin hairs. Also, you have a salary history, which makes you expensive. You wish you could keep a bottle of scotch in your desk drawer, but in your modern office, you don’t have a private desk and there are dogs and bean bag chairs everywhere. You’re afraid that if you drink on the job, you might miss the next time you try to sit on one of them and hit the floor instead. Your parents are falling apart. OMG, where do I begin? This is the part where you have a mixture of guilt and rage that makes you want to kill yourself even if your favorite dairy-free coconut ice cream goes on sale. This heavy mix of emotions is whipped up when you realize that you’ve waited your whole life for that prize, that time when you actually get to do what YOU want, only to discover that there is a small window of op- portunity for this. The window between when your children leave the house and the moment your aging parents fall apart is approximately two weeks. You want to learn to play an instrument, write a novel, go to Thailand

156 Personal Global Warming Syndrome and conduct your own gluttonous version of Eat, Pray, Eat. Nope, Mom’s got a bee in her bonnet about you coming to visit and then you’re stuck in the kitchen with her for 4 hours while she complains about everything and she cannot decide whether to live out her years in Chicago or Miami, oh and she’s got trouble breathing and needs your help to lift anything. She’s also afraid to drive to the bank and thinks Google Maps is evil. Should I go on??

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 157 TREATMENT When millions of women are simultaneously hotter than the average ex- ploding supernova, the best treatment is to find the world’s largest blender, mix-up sufficient quantities of frozen daiquiris, and have the uni- verse’s biggest (and longest) girls’ night out until things cool down. This could take millennia, but as long as the drinks and laughter keep coming, who cares?



Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome RE YOU FED UP with articles with titles like “15 Things AWomen Over 40 Should Never Wear to a Bris” or “Hairstyles to Avoid if You’re Post-Menopausal and Don’t Want to Look Like a Wet Alpaca”? If you answered yes, chances are you are in at least the early stages of Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome. And if strange men on the street telling you to “Smile!” have been replaced by dermatologists telling you “Don’t smile—you’ll wrinkle!”, you’re boob-deep in AAA Syndrome. Symptoms and signs No one disputes that eating too much fast food can lead to heart disease and smoking too much can lead to no one wanting to buy your sofa on Craig’s List. The same is true of consuming too much media featuring 26- year-old women advertising wrinkle creams and lip-fillers. That kind of reckless and unhealthy behavior can lead to more frown lines and some- times, 6-10 years in a nearby penitentiary where no one cares if you’re

160 Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome wearing mom jeans. Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome is exacerbated by watching the men in your life get compliments for how dashing and distinguished they now look with salt & pepper hair and laugh lines around their eyes, while suppos- edly well-meaning friends and relatives suggest you wear oversized sun- glasses and a scarf at all times to hide the fact that time has passed. Some of these same people came up with the 10-year-challenge on Facebook where we were supposed to post pictures of ourselves from 10 years ago and from today, so that we could all feel one decade closer to death. For most women, this syndrome usually kicks into high gear when we are swarmed by white-coated women at cosmetic counters who guarantee they can help take “10 years off your face today!” The best response is either to ignore them completely or sweetly comment, “Honey, I worked hard for every line on my face and unless you want me to draw a few on yours with a mascara wand, I’d mind my own business if I were you.”

14 MISTAKES THAT MAKE WOMEN LOOK OLDER by Leigh Anne Jasheway LET’S FACE IT, no one wants to look their age because that would be tantamount to admitting that time and gravity are real and that we all get O-L-D and eventually die. And then we’d have to acknowledge that the $4,217.23 we spent last year on looking younger with anti-aging creams, serums, masks, injections, facial exercises, mudpacks, and trainers who yelled, “Don’t frown, damn it!” were a waste of time and money. Besides, if we women look older, how are we going to get powerful men to sexually harass us and construction workers to catcall us? Would Louis CK be interested in molesting himself in our presence if we have crows’ feet? Would Matt Lauer press his office door-locking button if he spotted a varicose vein? After all, if a woman isn’t in constant fear for her safety, is she actually a woman anymore? If you’re like me, your Facebook feed and email inbox are probably overflowing with “practical” tips for adjusting your make-up, fashion, and eating habits so that you can pretend to be a woman much younger and less likely to punch someone in the throat for suggesting you wear a scarf made out of tiny Christmas lights to both cover up your turkey wattle and distract from your laugh lines. I say, forget all those tips if you haven’t already. Really, I’m serious.

162 Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome I’ve already forgotten what this article was supposed to be about. I got up and fed the dogs, put clothes in the laundry, and completed the finishing touches on my plan for smashing the patriarchy one wine glass at a time, so, where were we? Oh, yes, I remember now. Tips for avoiding looking our age. I’ve dug down deep and done some research—by which I mean I spent hours on Facebook and Twitter yelling at the screen—and come up with 14 things that you may currently be doing that make you look haggard, listless, and paler than Trump’s ethics lawyer’s face at a deposition with Robert Mueller. I could have come up with 15, but I don’t buy into the decimal system. I’m more of a base 7 girl myself. That’s a math joke. If you can tell math jokes at parties, people will avoid you and they’ll never really know how old you look. That’s my theory. So…here are the biggest mistakes a woman over 45 can make that will automatically age her to 90+ years: 1. Carrying a bag of cement in a backpack. This will cause you to slump over and look like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein. That big-eyed humpy look doesn’t do anyone justice. Besides, what are you doing still carrying a backpack? At your age, shouldn’t you have invested in a nice faux leather purse big enough to haul around your laptop, your wallet, your make-up, a pair of running shoes, a home gym, your teacup Rottweiler and a pair of purple bedazzled boxing gloves in case some idiot man tries to follow you home? Anything else is just superfluous. 2. Pretending to know who the band/podcaster/or DJ a much younger person at work just mentioned is. Instead of lying, try to distract said younger person with an avocado and a puppy. If that doesn’t work, hand them an X-Box, some lavender cannabis oil, and two cans of Pringles. Then run into the break room before they ask you a follow-up question. 3. Spending time with anyone who watches Fox News. Those peo- ple are usually covered in a thick coating of “Hannity slime” which

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 163 tends to orange the skin and make you look like a jaundiced tan- gerine (and not in a trendy way). If you are exposed to secondhand Fox News in an airport or at your racist gynecologist’s office, or- ganic baby wipes are your best bet for revealing your natural hu- man-toned skin color. 4. Trying to pass off your pre or post-menopausal gut as an unin- tended pregnancy. Unless you can back up your claims with a pee- stick you stole out of someone’s bathroom trash can, don’t go there. Instead, consider the many practical uses your round belly provides. It’s a great place to help you balance a small plate of appetizers at a party. It provides a warm and comfortable bed for a smallish animal—from squirrel to raccoon, depending. You can even use it for art. Who doesn’t want to try painting landscapes on their abs ala Bob Ross? Look, your belly button is a seagull! 5. Pretending to be keeping up with the Kardashians. Chances are you’re not even keeping up with your own drama, so why invite Kim, Khloe, and Koala Lampur into your life? Do they try to keep up with you? Hell no! 6. Not voting. Letting politicians decide what you and millions of other women get to do with female bodies will make your ovaries curl up into tiny balls like doodlebugs, and they will hide until more progressive candidates are elected. And every time you take a step, you’ll feel them rolling back and forth, back and forth in there. You do not want to invite that kind of lady trouble. 7. Hitting your friends up for weed and wine. A woman your age should have her own sources. 8. Using your cell phone at night. No one looks good in the harsh glow of blue light, especially if you have your font size set to “vis- ible from space.” 9. Hanging around city parks pretending one of the 5-year-olds is your kid. Who are you, Roy Moore? If you absolutely can’t admit to being a grandmother or older aunt, tell anyone who’s nosy enough to ask that you’re writing your college thesis on the development

164 Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome of heteronormative gender roles among 5-year-olds in a play- ground setting. 10. Acting like you’re stupid. This may be cute on a college girl (but only if everyone is too drunk to understand the difference between “cute” and “ridiculous”), but holding your intelligence inside causes your gallbladder to form stones that look like the cast of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. And you know what they say, “Before 40, you’re always aware of your ovaries. After 40, you’re always aware of your gallbladder.” 11. Insisting that your man or woman or both wear a sleep mask during sex (with you; with themselves, it’s optional) because you’re too self-conscious to get undressed in the light. Just take your clothes off and repeat into the mirror, “This is my body and it’s proof that chocolate is more important than Pilates.” If you are in a new relationship and really want a little more air of mys- tery about how your body looks, buy 10-watt light bulbs. 12. Macraméing your hair into a hanging plant holder. Sure, it was a good party trick in the 80s, but some things don’t make the gen- erational leap, especially if they’re not wearing a sturdy bra. 13. Collecting dead skin cells from your daughter and adhering them to your face with Gorilla Glue. Use Elmer’s instead; it won’t dry out your skin so much. 14. Referring to your vibrator as “Bob.” Face it. It’s “Robert” by now. Well, there you go. If you avoid these 14 mistakes, you’ll feel no older than your actual age, plus or minus three standard deviations. Yep, I made another math joke! You’ll feel so young, you might even be able to pass yourself off as someone young enough for a role in a Woody Allen movie.

WHY PAY THE SALON WHEN YOU CAN JUST ENJOY YOUR GOD-GIVEN NATURAL HIGHLIGHTS? by Katherine Shaw MEN CAN BE Silver Foxes, but can women? Popular culture is without a complimentary term for women with grey hair. Correction: there is no term aside from “old hag” and “frumpy cat lady” that describes women with grey hair. Perhaps I am wrong. I would very much like to be wrong. Please correct me! Men age like a fine wine, or perhaps a European cheese. In stark con- trast, women’s aging is described in terms of rotting fruit. These are the images society implanted in my brain since childhood. I find it both in- teresting and insulting that older men are easily considered a societal del- icacy, whereas older women put society at risk of metaphorical food poi- soning. Sure, women can be MILFs and Cougars, but those terms are too sex- ually objective for my taste. Note: Check out Urban Dictionary if you are unfamiliar with these terms. Proceed with caution. But I don’t want to be a MILF. Technically, I can’t even be a MILF because I don’t have children. I am also too sexually passive to be accepted into the realm of Cougardom.

166 Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome I want to be welcomed into the Silver Fox community because there’s an inherent dignity in the phrase. It’s a respectable membership, like MENSA or the Democratic Party. From what I’ve seen on television (be- cause I don’t go outside), Cougars prowl bars with the goal of scoring much younger men, and MILFs seduce their son’s college friends. I don’t enjoy bar-hopping, and men under 30 require too much babysitting. In the mahogany-lined library that is my imagination, sits the Silver Fox. He escapes tawdry scenarios. He is attractive, distinguished, and probably sips Dos Equis. He never chugs vodka sodas. I have a very specific image of myself as I age. It is somewhere between the Barefoot Contessa and Cruella de Vil. In a desperate attempt to find the female version of Silver Fox, I pro- cured the vast knowledge of the internet. Google says a female fox is called a “Vixen.” So, let’s make this happen ladies! Let’s make Silver Vixen a thing! Not only because I want the privilege of being an attractive older lady, but also because I’m too lazy to dye my hair anymore. Yesterday I found another ghostly strand atop my scalp. It hovered above the younger hairs, waving its wiry self about as a reminder of my mortality. It then whispered to me with the charm and kindness of the Grim Reaper: Hey, by any chance, did you forget that you’re slowly dying? Did you know that each day, you get closer to death? Did you know that your fertility is plummeting? Can you feel your eggs rot? Oh. You don’t need a reminder? Al- right then. Have a nice day. To be perfectly honest, my refusal to dye my hair is not just because I’m lazy. Going to the salon costs major money. I used to dye my hair, get highlights to cover greys and would end up spending $250. My heart function decreased with every Visa swipe. Besides, now I need that former salon money for kombucha and pro- biotics. My aging bowels take precedence over those little grey demons. No “butts” about it.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 167 Since ditching the salon, one method for accepting my grey hair is con- vincing myself that I’m the recipient of God’s highlights. I’ve never been a religious person, but desperate times call for desperate delusions. It’s been a few years since dousing chemicals onto my scalp. Each time I discover a new grey, I resist the urge to rip it out. Apparently, ripping out grey hairs may result in bald patches. I mean, I dig this whole “anointed with God’s highlights” delusion, but I’m not about to adopt a monk’s tonsure as my hairstyle. Sorry if I’m disappointing you, God. The Silver Vixen term gives women numerous benefits. Once we make grey hair on women normal and, dare I say, attractive, we can tackle the next hair-related issue on my list: Grey pubic hair. ‘Cause that was a sight to see!

168 Anti-Anti-Aging Syndrome TREATMENT If you suffer from this syndrome and find that symptoms get annoyingly worse over time, there are two primary treatments to try. The first is to let your hair, face, and body do what they want and then move to a wilderness preserve where the only creatures you see on a daily basis are animals who have no idea what a woman your age is “supposed to look like,” and if they do, they’re smarter than to discuss it with you. The second option is to invest in a colorful t-shirt with the message, “Someday you’ll be this gorgeous too!”





Age is All in My Head Syndrome HE PROBLEM WITH aging is there’s so much math involved. TTake for example: Symptoms and signs • 50 is the new 30! • This eye cream has been proven to reduce fine lines and wrinkles by 13% in 52% of users in 7 weeks. • If you sit on an incline of 32% with your head on the lower end of the angle, your face and boobs will look perkier, not to mention with all the blood rushing to your head, there’s a 23% chance that you’ll no longer be able to remember your real age. It’s no wonder the majority of women (and men and gender non-bi- nary folks) get confused as they age—no one told us we’d have to solve math story problems in order to live a long and healthy life. Age is All in My Head Syndrome rears its ugly, uh, head whenever someone over the age of 45 (85 for men) watches a video of a 100-year-

172 Age is All in My Head Syndrome old running hurdles, an 83-year-old hip hop dancer, or a 97-year-old Betty White rescuing a bunny by shoving a city bus out of the way with one hand while doing an interview with Sexy Senior Citizen Magazine. (See, how much math that was? Aren’t you exhausted just reading all those numbers?) People suffering from this syndrome feel both hopeful and despondent at the same time, wondering whether their knees will hold out long enough for them to reinvent themselves as the world’s oldest superhero. This roller-coaster of emotions may be misdiagnosed by those in the med- ical profession as low blood sugar or a sluggish gallbladder. The primary symptom of Age is All in My Head Syndrome is the abil- ity to look in the mirror at graying hair and sagging eyelids and feel both thrilled that you’re still alive and depressed that you’re almost never the youngest person in the room anymore, unless you visit a nursing home or county fair.

MY AGING BRAIN: A FLEA MARKET OF USELESS INFORMATION by Denise Thiery WHEN I WAS a schoolgirl, I absorbed information effortlessly. Newly acquired data rolled into my brain, where it was instantaneously arranged into neat and tidy, easily retrievable nuggets of useful information. I could appear to ignore the teacher’s droning voice as I doodled on a piece of notebook paper, filed my nails, and carried on a covert conversation with my best friend across the room via sign language. If the teacher, sensing my inattention, called on me for an answer, I could retrieve the stored knowledge at will, spewing out quiz-worthy facts about the Spanish American War, geometric progression, and the chemi- cal composition of bituminous coal. These days, if I do not make a conscious effort to store new knowledge by announcing to my somnolent brain, “Hey, you! Pay attention! We may need this later!” The information sneaks right back out the nearest aper- ture like a cat in heat darting through a screen door left ajar. Now that I am getting old, it is a flea market in there; a jumble of assorted and useless oddities dumped on top so as to completely cover many vitally important facts like “where did I park the car?” and “what is the PIN number for my bank card?”

174 Age is All in My Head Syndrome Maybe I could remember where I left my glasses if my brain weren’t wasting so much space on useless information. Hey, did you know that every time you lick a stamp, you’re consuming 1/10 of a calorie? (Note to self: Email more, mail letters less.) I acquired plenty of academic knowledge in school, but do I remember the periodic tables? The capital of Peru? The theory of relativity? No, but I still remember the theme song to the Saturday morning cartoon “Un- derdog” and all the words to the Chuck Berry novelty song “My Ding-a- Ling.” Do I need to know that? Where is the delete button when you need it? Where did I leave my purse? Why did I put a pound of bacon in the closet and my slippers in the freezer? Maybe I will ask my…um…you know…that man I have been living with for decades, ever since our…shoot! What’s it called when you stand up together and profess your eternal love in front of all your friends and family? Drat! It was in that building with the stained-glass windows and the tall pointy thing on the roof. What is it called? I do recall we had cake afterward—progress! When my short-term memory began to fade, I tried the “string around the finger” technique at first. The only time that worked, however, was if the thing I was trying to remember was to buy string; otherwise, the con- nection was lost. That was when I discovered the merits of list-making. Every detail of the day’s itinerary was on the list, including the words “make a list.” When a pocket-sized notebook proved to be too easily misplaced, I used progressively larger notebooks until I worked my way up to a spiral bound volume the size of War and Peace. The sheer weight of it on my hip caused me to list to starboard so badly I needed a sextant to navigate from point A to point B. Still, I continued to lose it. How pathetic is it to rely on lists because your memory is shot, and then repeatedly forget where you left the list? Yesterday, my pharmacist called and told me that I had left my note- book there. Why did I even take it there? The only item on the list was

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 175 “fill the prescription for pain pills.” I had just left my dentist’s office, where I had my last wisdom tooth pulled. Did I think I was likely to for- get, on the short drive from the dentist’s office to the pharmacy, that I had a Novocain-numbed cheek and a wad of bloody gauze in my jaw? What if the source of all knowledge is the wisdom tooth, hence the name? Come to think of it, the decline in my memory began about the time I lost my first wisdom tooth. This does not bode well for the future. When I awoke this morning, I discovered that sometime during the night, in my sleep-befuddled state, I had written in my bedside notebook, “See dentist about the possibility of reinserting wisdom teeth. Will Tooth Fairy demand refund?” What do you suppose I meant by that? It’s all right here in the flea market of my brain—now if only I could remember which bin I put it in…

THE PERKS OF TURNING 40— 100% TRUE, 50% FUNNY by Noga Tal WHEN YOU’RE A man, turning 40 is a sexy, irresistible, gray-haired rite of passage. A sports car, a new tattoo and an affair with a 26-year-old fashion blogger almost make you wish 40 had come around sooner. But as a woman? Not so much… Here are some of the things you can expect as life hurls you towards your 40th birthday: Droppin’ your clothes in a solid minute—or the work-clothes-to-PJs algorithm (and no, I’m not talking about getting naked for men). Exten- sive research has found that the older you are, the shorter the time between entering your front door and being in PJs. Remember how impressed your friends were when at 12 you were the first to learn how to unhook your bra from under your shirt and pull it out of your sleeve? This is next level ninja moves, sister. By now you’ve perfected your game to mastery and you only need a measly 30 seconds to pull off those shoes, drop your pants, fling off that shirt, and pop on a cozy flannel set. Professional peaks—are a dream of the past. You finally realize you’re never going to make that 30 under 30 list. 80 over 80 is more like the right aspiration for you at this point.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 177 Sexy flats—remember that beautiful collection of heels? They haven’t been touched in a few years. At 40, the sight of heels makes your toes tense and your lower back ache. You convince yourself that sneakers are the new norm and a comfortable woman is a sexy one. Your new BFFs? Flats. You spend most of your days looking online for that elusive flat shoe that’ll make you look sexy AND add 4 inches to your height. Flexi-what?—once a touch-your-toe-to-your-nose type a’ gal, these days you have to consider the risks when bending down to pick something off the floor. Bend at the knees and you may hear an awful popping noise from the left one; bend at the hips and your back may stay at a 90-degree angle for good… Targeted advertising—you think you’ve been canny enough to hide your true age from the world, but it turns out that scrubbing your LinkedIn profile isn’t enough. Zuck and Bezos know all, and you’re sud- denly bombarded by ads that reflect the new, ‘mature’ you. From ads for divorce lawyers to yoni wands to adoption agencies, the internet is whis- pering your next age-appropriate move. And mostly it’s telling you to pull a Sandra Bullock—find your man-freedom, tighten that vag, and get thee another woman’s baby. Of Goldilocks & Men—on the upside, this is probably the only time in your life when you’ll have such a range of interest in men. From 26 to 56, you’re right smack in the middle of the entire age group. You still find chiseled abs a turn on, but you’ve also come to appreciate a receding hair- line and a beer belly. Preparing for the next decade (or two)—as you wonder when and where the hell these ‘perks of aging’ came from, it dawns on you that this train ain’t stoppin’ and there’s much more to come. You find yourself wondering how you can be proactive in this next decade and prepare for what’s next. You find yourself watching YouTubers called Hot&Flashy and you take an interest in indoor gardening, just in case.

178 Age is All in My Head Syndrome TREATMENT I had it just a minute ago. I’m sure it will come to me in a while.





MOTHERHOOD



Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome F ALL THE SYNDROMES women may experience during their Olives, nothing is more filled with highs and lows than MIM Syn- drome. From the first time your newborn spits up on your only clean blouse to the day you realize both you and your teen are going through hormone hell together, motherhood feels like you’re riding a me- chanical bull atop a roller coaster with your eyes closed. (And you thought Birdbox was scary!) This would explain the nausea, dizziness, and un- kempt hair that help us professionals here at The Syndrome Mag to diag- nose you with this ailment.

184 Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome Symptoms and signs Like grief, Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome has five distinct stages, all of which may last on average for 3 to 720 months: • Denial—During this stage, most women refuse to accept that motherhood is happening to them, despite the fact that their boobs leak every time a baby, any baby, cries or there are 20-some- things in the house asking for instructions on how to do laundry for the 8,000th time. • Confusion—Most mothers are confused all the time due to sleep deprivation, as they try to answer a series of unending questions: Should the baby cry all night, or should I? Is it better to be a hel- icopter parent, a Tiger mom, or an Australian shepherd who lets the kids do what they want until it’s time for them to come home at night? Who are these kids and why are they expecting me to cook for them? Has anyone seen my bra? • Embarrassment—In the early part of motherhood, women are fre- quently humiliated by almost everything associated with chil- drearing, from their own lack of knowledge about preschools and scrubbable paints to their offspring’s failure to be able to meet de- velopmental markers such as NOT disrobing during the school play. Fortunately, early embarrassment is balanced out by the schadenfreude of intentionally humiliating offspring in public by wearing a Wonder Woman costume to your child’s soccer tour- nament. • Exhaustion—Two hours of uninterrupted sleep a night for 17 years is… wait, I dozed off for a minute…zzzzz • Unadulterated joy—Throughout all the stages, despite being sleep-deprived, overwhelmed, half-dressed and learning to maneu- ver a minivan into a compact car parking space while eating floor Cheerios, those with MIM Syndrome are somehow also able to feel a level of happiness only previously understood by yogis who sit on mountaintops and never have to interact with humankind.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 185 No one can explain this. It baffles male scientists everywhere.

THE PLEASURES OF PARENTHOOD— WHERE’S MY MANUAL? by Janet Livingstone MY DAUGHTER WAS conceived during a joyful weekend in Mon- treal and born at the speed of light on a sunny day in late January. We almost didn’t make it to the hospital. At age one, instead of crawling, she scooted around on her butt like a crazed guinea pig, chasing her older brother. At age three, she would throw uncontrollable temper tantrums because her clothes itched or because she didn’t like her coat. She would climb into the bathtub in the evening, bent on vomiting up all the rage and agitation that accumulated in her tiny body throughout the day, and yell at me in Slovak: “Mama, you are disgusting, ugly and stupid!!” If I tried to shout back, she would just get more hysterical; if I tried to leave the bathroom, she would scream and beg me to stay. I had to sit quietly on the floor, under the sink, while she raged for what felt like an eternity. These tantrums were not actually connected to any event— I’m convinced they were just a manifestation of the genes from my ranting mother-in-law from Bratislava. Once she used the equivalent of the c-word in Slovak. It came at the end of a string of much lighter insults. I’d been biding my time, wishing it were over, and then I heard her say the word. And I lost it. I started