Being a mediocre IB Managing Director is paradise

I wake up at 5:00 AM to the sound of my wife shuffling around the house, actively ignoring me. She hasn’t looked me in the eye since bonus season, when I explained that this year’s payout was “not as bad as expected” instead of actually saying the number.

At 5:05 AM, I stare at the ceiling, contemplating how I’ve dedicated my entire existence to formatting slides and moving logos half an inch to the left. I reach for my phone, but my wife, already annoyed, mutters, "Jesus, can you just exist for one second without checking your emails?"

I cannot.

By 6:00 AM, I fire off my first round of Outlook comments, ensuring the team starts their day in full panic mode.

• "This isn’t quite there yet."
• "Let’s take a step back on this."
• "We need to push harder on this analysis."

No actual guidance. Just pure, directionless pain.

At 6:05 AM, I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, ensuring that by the time the team panics and replies, I will already be ignoring them.

By 9:45 AM, I storm into the office, coat flapping, walking just fast enough that no one can stop me, but slow enough that I can still establish dominance.

As I pass each workstation, I mumble people’s names under my breath without stopping.

• “Smith.”
• “Johnson.”
• “Garcia.”
• "Miller... hmm.”

I do not elaborate. I just keep moving.

At 10:00 AM, I walk right past the staffer and begin personally assigning juniors to deals like a dictator.

"Put Smith on this one."
"Smith is already drowning in three deals."
"Good. He’s warmed up."

At 10:30 AM, I call the VP into my office. I do not offer him a chair.

"This deck isn't there yet." I say, flipping through the pages at random while sighing dramatically.

• I pause dramatically on a slide I don’t understand.
• I squint like I’ve just uncovered a major flaw.
• I move a text box half an inch to the left, then move it back.

Then, out of nowhere, I burst into an unhinged, baffoonish laugh: loud, forced, uncomfortable.

"HAHAHAHAHA!!"

The VP doesn’t know whether to laugh along or fear for his career. He stands there, frozen, while I regain my composure and pretend nothing happened.

At 11:00 AM, I send another round of comments, completely contradicting what I said this morning.

• “Actually, let’s revert back to the previous version.”
• “Numbers need to be tighter.”
• “This doesn’t fly.”

It is a PowerPoint deck. It will never fly.

At 12:30 PM, I head to my “client lunch,” which is actually just me and another MD complaining about comp while splitting a $600 bottle of wine that we will both expense.

• “Juniors just don’t have the same work ethic anymore.”
• “We should really start our own fund.”
• “If I don’t clear $2M this year, I’m out.”

We will never start our own fund.

By 2:00 PM, I hop on a client call I haven’t prepped for and immediately start throwing out meaningless buzzwords.

• “We need to be more aggressive here.”
• "Have we thought about this from a strategic alternatives perspective?"
• “Let’s pressure-test this.”
• “Are we pushing valuation hard enough?”

The client nods. The VP looks like he wants to cry. The Analyst is now on her third Celsius.

At 3:30 PM, I decide to check in on junior morale.

Not because I care. But because I’m searching for any sign of discontent.

I awkwardly motion for an associate to step into my office. She looks like she’s mentally searching for the nearest exit.

"How’s morale?"

She stares. Silent. Blinking. Buffering. Finally, she forces a smile.

"Incredible. Best job ever. I wake up every day thrilled to work for you."

I squint, searching for doubt. Her eye twitches. I make a mental note. Potential flight risk.

At 4:00 PM, I send an email titled “Quick Thoughts” which is code for ‘Cancel your dinner plans, because I’m about to waste your life.’

At 5:45 PM, I execute my stealth exit.

• I do not announce that I’m leaving.
• I do not check my inbox.
• I do not say goodbye.

I simply vanish.

At 6:30 PM, I am on New Jersey Transit, staring blankly out the window, contemplating how much better my life would be if I lived in Manhattan. Then I remember I refuse to spend more than $4 on coffee, will never buy the team happy hour drinks and will absolutely not pay for a Manhattan apartment.

At 9:00 PM, I check Outlook. The team has sent three versions of the deck.

I leave them on read.

At 9:45 PM, I text my assistant:
"Did we pay for my Aspen rental yet?"

At 10:30 PM, I decide it’s time to remind everyone who’s in charge. I fire off a final round of feedback.

"Not quite there yet, let’s do another pass."

I do not open the deck. I pour myself one last scotch, sink into my overpriced leather chair, and refresh my brokerage account, quietly debating whether I should have just gone into private equity like everyone else.

Tomorrow, I will wake up at 5:00 AM, mumble more names, laugh at my own jokes, and destroy another day.

Being a mediocre Managing Director is paradise.