"Also wants a blonde!" ? Why men dream of cheating in their 50s
Recently, I was a guest at a party. One of the kind, where one should rather wear a jacket. It was already very late when a good friend came to me and whispered: "I made it." He told me that he? Early 50, married, children? have an affair with a mid-thirties Me? smooth 50, married, children? hung on his lips like a snake on the flute of her summoner. I breathed back, heavily: "Once again a 30-year-old ...? And then we neighed a mutually agreeable? Jahahahahaaaaa? and hacked our hands on the thighs.
I did not really know if I should be happy for him or ashamed. But what I certainly felt was a stitch. Again. It was not the first time. Not to misunderstand us: I like my life. I love my wife, I love my kids (despite puberty), I like my job, my apartment, my neighborhood, my friends. Yes, and I even like myself. Mostly.
Further evidence of my mediocrity
But as the years go by, the stitches pile up, spewing into me more and more. For a few minutes I look at the photo of a young Catalan on Spiegel Online, long blond hair, deep neckline, dreaming of her side, as Che Guevara of the Catalan independence movement? and it stings.
My son plays on the Playstation? FIFA? Touchingly a profile for me, integrates me into the virtual football team and lets me kick around there with the Ronaldos of this world in Bernabéu, as if I'm fit 23. Spades! A friend tells me that he has bought a house in Austria from a part of his Dagobert-Duck-money pile, the luxury version of Heidi's Alm-Öhi-Hütte. Double-spades. All small blows, proofs of my failure, my own mediocrity.
My life has long been a steady development of? Is somehow okay? to "Wow, really cool ?. In my childhood a sports bum-bäm cannon, in youth a swarm of girls: Silke, Renate, Gudrun. Later school, study, good job, conquered the best woman in the world, fathered two children. Every success was a bit more in my crown.
And then happened? Nothing. At some point, my life went sideways. Since then I live in a phase of stagnation. The big successes are missing. The deeply satisfying feeling of taking the next step, of creating something great, of meaning: over. Today I am a panting hamster with rings under my eyes. Like most others out there too. Gray. Interchangeable. I'm a middle-aged man, they say. That sounds like Muff and what-who-wants-to-do ?! My life is a series of routine and small defeats. A whiny Blues in D minor.
I could surrender now. Get a belly and fused with the sofa? like so many others. Or fight back. Fight. One last time!
Time is running out
I can understand that my brother in law recently got a Ducati under his ass. I can understand that a friend is training for a marathon for the first time. I can understand that a colleague is learning to sail around the world again. And I do not care if our women laugh about it? I once laughed at these clichéd types myself. But now I want a racing machine, an alpine hut and my Jaguar body back. And yes, dear, even the blonde. It's not about her at all. It's about me. Exclusively. Deep inside, we hear men trickling the hourglass. Every grain a spade. Time is running out.
So, have leniency with us, roll your eyes, blaspheme over us, shake your head. But shut up, damn it. Only conquer once more, win again, be successful again. Because already the 60 glows away on the horizon.
And she roars: CARPE THE FUCKING DIEM!
