We middle-aged white men have to stick together. Whether in politics, business, literature – or on the bike path at night.
The "fashion police" are superfluous, no matter what age Photo: Geisser/imago
And again, treacherous trees have prepared the bike path with roots to kill cyclists. I swerve onto the sidewalk, unfortunately at this exact spot the curb is too high, the angle of approach too obtuse and my speed too fast. Coming from behind, a female cyclist curves around the scene of the accident and continues to ride briskly: one less ass, she probably sums up, only a dead middle-aged white man is a good middle-aged white man. I can’t blame her.
For this, an older guy stops and asks anxiously about my condition. So, on the left leg, the nice jeans have a big hole. Underneath, the knee has a small hole. The left hand has a medium hole. It drips red. Finally, I pull myself up from the stable lateral position that the fall has conveniently put me in. "Thanks," I say. "Everything’s great."
He seems reassured. We middle-aged white men have to stick together, after all. These are the famous rope teams we’re always talking about. Whether in politics, business, literature or on the bike path at night. We have no one else left.
Except for our pitiful women. But even they have their pitfalls. Because when I tell her the other day, the jeans with the hole I can continue to wear well, two birds with one stone, because so the wound can breathe and that wear but now so, it probably even cost a pig’s money, if you buy the "used look" pre-holed and not as I make in pain, I get a veto slammed in front of the bib: So much for "hip", at my age I have to be careful; otherwise people would only think that an old bum was coming, that’s a fine line.
The aging man has it less easy than many think. The hormones go crazy, the andropause clown no longer understands the world. The wife is gone, and his best friend is the urologist. All episodes of the column "Andropause" are here.
"At your age, you shouldn’t do this and that anymore": I get that all the time. Jumping around the dance floor with chemicals in my head and calcium in my joints. Or when I forgot my fear of the pushing kids at the concert, stormed to the stage spiky and impetuous like a colt and sang along with tears in my eyes: "I used to be free, I used to be seventeen…" That was then supposedly embarrassing again. I guess I’m just supposed to play giant chess in the park with the other middle-aged white men, wearing bright pants in muted colors. And to bed at ten. Nothing is allowed anymore. Nothing.
Texts on the andropause and more by Uli Hannemann can be found in his new book "Oh no, Boomer!", Satyr Verlag, 2020, 14 euros.