Random Reader Reaction

I ache whenever I hear the phrase Private Equity. Lately, I’ve been sitting on the washing machine while I read my morning Journal so I can feel like I’m really a part of all the Maytag/Whirlpool/Ripplewood action. I can’t even order the 555 deal from Dominos anymore—the thought of the Bain Capital badasses that came in and cleaned house makes me so dizzy with yearning I have to sit down. I lay back on my deceivingly uncomfortable West Elm sofa and stare blankly at the ceiling. A childish smile creeps across my face, and I gargle the idea of Private Equity like soothing warm salt water. The solution seeps into my blood, calming me with its promises of wealth, power, and social standing. *Swallow* What bliss.

Before I became so fervent about Private Equity, I thoroughly considered all my other career options: hedge funds and VC. Hedge funds definitely offered potential for “the bling,” but as much as I would love to “arb” things, the lack of indubitable financial security and threat of independent decision making quickly scared me off. Venture Capital seemed quite trendy and even maybe fun, but the mere thought of working with fat, stinky, hippie techies that would come into my pristine office in “Free Kevin” t-shirts and cargo shorts (ugh) only to sully my Knoll desk with their dirty Tevas nearly made me barf all over my keyboard (I know the bubble has burst, but it’s still a scary thought). PE was the obvious choice.

I dream about PE firms like young boys dream about sports teams. KKR, Hicks Muse, Warburg Pincus…swoon (if they only had trading cards. [sidenote: there should be BSD trading cards for those like Milken and Merriwhether]). In my spare moments (aggregate ½ hour a week), I plan out every detail of what I will do when I’m working in PE with the care that a girl plans out the details her wedding. Which Jermyn Street tailor will I commission? Where will I summer? And most importantly, how exactly will I respond to people when they ask me what I do. “Oh me? I work at a little PE shop,” I’ll say. I’ll proudly enunciate the P and the E and then arrogantly draw out “shhhoop,” smacking my lips smugly with the release of final phoneme, “pph.” Their faces will light up with amazement and envy, and I will beam condescendingly. Life will be grand. Then, eventually, after several years of “rolling hard,” I’ll settle down. My mansion in Danbury will be tastelessly opulent, my wife sufficiently medicated, and my children far out of sight and mind at Andover or Exeter or Groton.

But it is yet a dream. Still one year left to go before the would-be transition, and I’m already beginning to wilt. The grind of the “stepping-stone” is really beginning to take its toll, and the fantasies of PE Valhalla are the only things that keep me afloat (except for packing a fat lipper at around 1:30AM). But it’ll happen. I’ll whore myself out to multiple headhunters, perfect my “Why Private Equity?” interview BS, and regurgitate every worthless finance formula they can think of. For now, though, “ALT+E-S-V” it is. Pasting values, bitch.