November 2008

I guess you could say I’m a “fair weather DABA girl.”  I’ve only dated bankers in passing.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like the lofts in Tribeca or the views at Stone Rose.  I just preferred guys with less pack mentality and more free time.

So I married the Anti-Banker.  A frugal work-from-home entrepreneur.  Creative?  Yes.  Lazy?  Sometimes.  But always chock-full of personality and with a schedule that was open ended enough to meet my needs (couples yoga and organic fruit markets)

You can imagine my surprise when, three days before our wedding, he announced that he was going to be a trader IN FLORIDA (Gasp).  But what was I to do?  The dress was paid for and my high school frenemies were in town.  There was no getting out of it (not to mention the L-factor, he may now be a trader but he’s still my trader).  I put it out of my mind.  Even on our honeymoon, I’d only discuss it in the if we move to Florida scenario.

Well, the honeymoon is over.  He started work last week.  I’m now living in a “no calls-after-ten-because-I-have-to-be-up-at-6” universe.  His mood used to be ruled by what house Mercury was in, now its ruled by the home foreclosure rate.  Not exactly what I signed up for. I had been working in health and beauty for a popular fashion magazine in New York and had made a career out of having flawless Snow White skin.  Where was I going to work in Florida?   Would the magazine Ocean Avenue even consider hiring someone as adamantly opposed to tanning as me?  What’s going to happen to the bohemian chic lifestyle I had been dreaming of since I was a little girl?  What is expected of the perfect DABA wife?  Do I check the DOW while cooking dinner?  Do I get a Mrs. DABA credit card, and, if so, what sort of usage requirements accompany it?  How much time to traders actually spend in strip clubs and I should I really believe there’s no sex in the champagne room?  I need some serious DABA advice ASAP.  There isn’t a “thou shalt not work in finance clause in my prenup.

-D.D.’s story, as retold by the DABA Girls

I couldn’t comprehend why people were so insistent that America’s automobile industry had to be saved.  We import safer more fuel efficient cars from Asia.  No big deal.  Survival of the fittest, that’s my motto, or was, until my FBF broke up with me.  He explained my termination as follows:

“Princess, we need to talk.  How do I explain this?  You are a costly investment.  During better economic times, I was happy to spend a little extra to buy American, but now we are all being forced to make tough decisions and, well, bottom line: I can quite literally get more bang for my buck if I invest with a foreign model instead.  Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

And that my fellow DABA girls is more or less how my girlfriend services were outsourced to an underage Russian model who was willing to provide services substantially equivalent to my own but at well-below market value and without the regulatory hassle.  F*cking mercenary.

I hope the government earmarked some bailout money for ex-DABA girls.  Without my FBF subsidizing my lifestyle, I am seriously over leveraged with Saks and I’m not talking about Goldman.

-”Jen’s” story, as retold by the DABA Girls