Lee Geiger

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

“Time” by Pink Floyd, “Dark Side of the Moon” (1973)

Like the last few pieces of deliciously crispy bacon staring back at me from my breakfast plate, the days of the “Teen” decade will soon be gone. History will determine a thematic description for the period of 2010-2019, but for me “The Meanie Teenies” seems appropriate. Everyone just seems so angry about everything.

Soon will commence the 2020’s. The 20th century’s third decade was popularly labeled “the Roaring Twenties,” and the crystal ball inside my head suggests the only title that won’t quite fit the 21^st century version will be “the Boring Twenties.” The world’s DNA just isn’t wired that way, though I honestly wouldn’t mind a relatively calm ten-year sojourn where society’s hair isn’t seemingly on fire every day.

I consider myself an amateur history sleuth, and I’ve discovered that examining periods of time in ten-year increments is like plucking grapes off a stem; they’re plentiful and easy to digest. I’ve lost count of how many TV shows I’ve watched dissecting every aspect of the nineteen-sixties, seventies, eighties and nineties, and I’ve been known to lose myself in books detailing the political realities of the 1850’s, or the fashion trends of the 1730’s. I think you get my drift.

Because I was born in a year that ended with a nine, my historical decade syndrome (or HDS for short) parallels my own personal development. My teenage years coincide with the turbulent 1970’s, which explains why I believe classical rock music from that decade is the greatest. Ever. Don’t even try to argue with me on this point. Just nod your head in agreement and go listen to some Led Zeppelin. Or Pink Floyd (see above). Preferably next to a lava lamp

Next came my transformative twenties, marinating the entirety of my being with the cultural happenings of the “Me Decade” of the 1980’s. At various points on the calendar I received my mail in Washington, D.C., California, New Hampshire, New York and Georgia. I also graduated from college, got married, earned an MBA, and in one extraordinary day experienced a stock market crash of 22%. No period of time has had a greater impact on my present-day mindset, which is why I continue to worship at the altars of Ronald Reagan, Madonna, Joe Montana and Bill Gates. In that order.

The 1990’s were a blur. Raising two small children does that to you. As does going out to dinner three nights a week to entertain clients in an effort to pay off the mortgage and pursue a career. And I’d happily do it all over again, though what I would have given back then for an Uber app.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the beginning of a decade usually bears little to zero resemblance to its end. The textbook example is how the the Twenty-Oh Oh’s turned into the Twenty Oh No’s. I woke up on New Year’s Day 2000 having survived the cataclysmic forecasts of Y2K, and I foolishly believed the rainbows and unicorns generated by my oversized trading commissions from Wall Street’s dot.com boom would last forever. Life was fun and easy and the only thing I had to worry about was what time to schedule my kid’s soccer practices. Then came 9/11, two stock market crashes, two career “retirements,” a financial meltdown of Great Recessionary proportions, and a sorely timed investment in a motorcycle accessory company. By December 2009 I was scared stiff, and the only thing evaporating faster than my savings account was my own self-confidence.

Thus, began the Teen Years. January 1, 2010 was a Friday. I have no idea what I spent doing that day, but it’s a good guess it involved planting my then fifty-year-old butt on the couch to watch football. #8 Ohio State defeated #7 in the Rose Bowl, and #5 Florida, led by Tim Tebow, trounced #3 Cincinnati 51-24 in the Sugar Bowl. But I really didn’t give a damn, just so long as the chips and salsa kept coming and were placed within arm’s reach.

The Red-Headed kid, a.k.a. Ross Geiger, was home on Christmas break, sharing stories about the funky four-person study group he had in his Contemporary Middle Eastern History course at Brown that included a petite freshman classmate named Emma Watson. Yes, that Emma Watson. His younger brother, the Skinny Kid, a.k.a. Keith Geiger, was rolling into his own as a sophomore sensation on the Campolindo cross country team, and it was clear to everyone he had the academic chops to secure a spot at an elite private university. The Pretty Blonde, a.k.a. She Who Will Not Be Questioned, was in her 19^th season as a Hall of Fame stay-at-home mom, but she was chomping at the bit to reinvent herself and get back into the workforce.

I, meanwhile, had just completed eight months grinding my way as a sales trader at a start-up broker-dealer called Penserra, and to this point less than half of my monthly commission checks had included a comma. My 2009 W-2 statement featured a gross income that was as gross as it was laughable. Our family had weathered the financial crisis, but thanks to poor judgement on my part our sand pile was less than half of what it was just a few years prior. On this day of college football excellence, the best play call to support my family in the future was to dial up a Hail Mary and cash in my life insurance policy, and sooner was preferable to later.

Concurrent events happening outside the walls of Casa de Geiger on that particular Friday included the following;

• The Dow Jones Industrial Average was climbing back from fiscal Armageddon and now stood a shade above 10,000 (Amazon was trading at $132…so, there’s that)
• The national unemployment rate was 9.8%
• Instagram hadn’t been invented yet.

At least I had my blog to keep me company. What had started off so innocently in August 2008 as a scribbled blurb called “The Screaming Eagle” had morphed into a daily diatribe with the politically correct title of “The Daily Pundit” before settling on my preferred mantle of “The Marginal Prophet.” My readership had grown from a handful of customers into a few thousand fans with questionable writing tastes waiting anxiously every morning by their inboxes. At least I had that going for me.

My reality going into the Teen decade was this; I was fifty years old, ancient by the standards of Wall Street trading desks but still way too young to hang up my tool belt. My income was the equivalent of minimum wage in Guatemala, and the tuition bills were just starting to roll in. The Pretty Blonde was doing her best to be supportive, but she would soon be turning fifty herself and had her own set of personal challenges keeping her busy.

Yet here I am in December 2019. I’m still standing, albeit an inch shorter than I was during Clinton Administration. I cried like a baby when Ross and Keith graduated from college, and I danced a jig when both found good jobs that took them off the payroll. I cried and danced even more when Ross married his soulmate and gave us an amazingly wonderful daughter-in-law to love. I co-founded Duke and Duke Charity Auctions with my buddy Sam, and I’m more than happy to say that we’re pretty damn good. I wrote a salacious book just for the fun of it, and it somehow managed to get published. By 2014 the financial trade winds finally began filling Penserra’s sails, and I spent the much of the second half of the Teen years playing a lot of golf in Oregon and Ireland and drinking a lot of wine in Napa and Tuscany. The Pretty Blonde, meanwhile, took a job at St. Mary’s College and became the Significant Somebody I always knew her to be, and I’ve now dedicated my life to serving as her Cabana Boy.

I tried to retire from Wall Street for a third time, but my boss at Penserra offered me the job of Director of Marketing, a position to which I had no discernable skills or aptitude for. I have grown to absolutely, positively love it and I seemingly learn something every day. Thanks to his tremendous foresight and generosity, George Madrigal has forever secured a prime sport on my Mount Rushmore of greatest people to work for.

I don’t really have any grand plans for the 2020’s. More golf and wine would be nice. So would a dog. Or a grandchild. A twentieth anniversary retirement party at Penserra works well also. The health angle certainly comes into play more, and luckily The Pretty Blonde and I have managed to avoid anything major. Knock on wood. Twice.

I’ll be spending the final days of 2019 in some exotic locale contemplating nothing more urgent than what concoction of rum and fruit to enjoy next. That seems as good a place as any to bid adieu. Thank you, Twenty Teenies. It’s been real.