I must confess: I am a Hedge Fund Wife.
But, wait! I'm not like the rest of them. I promise. I am not some skeletorious trend-splashed fashion victim or 5’8” Xanax tablet with a face on it. I look my thirty-four years and have not succumbed to the Botox needle or boob lift, despite the 9.81 meters per second force of gravity taking its toll. While I must admit a gal can love the perks of not stressing about dough, there are some drawbacks to the world in which I inhabit. Namely the incessant quest for perfection at all costs. In every way—perfect kids, homes, bodies, lives. Many of my friends are all slaves to their appearance; nips, tucks, $600 creams made of sheep’s placenta, trainers, lipo, the works.
You see, Manhattan is a different beast. Fortunes are made on people moving around money, not widgets. And then there are the current reigning titans, the kings of ka-ching: the Hedgies. Like their Gekko-y '80s counterparts, these guys love the money. Greed is good, so it was said, but these days, bragging is better. It seems that every guy my husband works with needs the latest phone, newest car, biggest house to show off; there’s no modesty --- it’s in your face, loud and clear, volume to eleven. And that’s how they like it. As do the women who chase them. Most women would secretly wear Nikes under their Vera Wang bridal dresses so they could faster sprint down the aisle to marry one.
The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund