It's not as if someone like me isn't open to a real thrill: climbing an eight-thousander. shark diving Tidying up a seven year old's room.
It's also true that I'm slowly saying goodbye to a few things. So, voluntarily. By that I don't mean my hair color or a certain suppleness in the hips. But it has to do with the latter that I will probably never go on a skiing holiday again. I've rarely done it anyway, but since nobody seems to return from one without physically standing there as if they had wrestled with a snow cat, I keep my distance.
A friend who hobbles into the office like the late Quasimodo and is diagnosed with a pelvic ring fracture a day later. A friend who wears a plastic foot weighing a ton after the plank that means the world, which would put any Playmobil man to shame.
And of course the German national goalkeeper, who has taken early retirement behind the house on the slope.
My name is Mickey Beisenherz. In Castrop-Rauxel I am a world star. Elsewhere I have to pay for everything myself. I'm a multimedia (single) general store. Author (Extra3, Jungle Camp), presenter (ZDF, NDR, ProSieben, ntv), podcast host ("Apocalypse and Filter Coffee"), occasional cartoonist. There are things that strike me. Sometimes even upset me. And since the impulse control is constantly jammed, they probably have to get out. My religious symbol is the crosshair. The razor blade is my dance floor. And just now it itches in the feet again.
I don't understand how you can proactively throw yourself into the snow somewhere else at the end of a long winter. Considering the wave of injuries, it seems to me like the collective ass bomb in the shredder. Popular sport broken leg. Fracture location Germany.
What bothered me anyway is the material intensity of such a holiday. The horrible ski boots, the helmet, the horrible clothes that become unbearable as soon as a little bit of snow slides down your neck and then down your back.
Add to that the bulky skis that you have to pick up in a musty ski cellar before you let strangers poke your eye in a bus that leaves miserably early.
Then you're hanging in the chairlift, dressed like Robocop in Greenland, and you've already got your Tena Men full before you even have your first coffee because of the height of the gondola. The view down the slope is not priced in.
On the piste, paralyzed by panic, you make slow-motion turns like an orangutan with osteoporosis, before some Werner buggers you from the side in the middle of the slope, because the twelve Obstler in the fun hut just have a bit of an effect on your coordination.
Meanwhile, on the snowboard slope, your own wife lets yourself be charmed into juicy daydreams by ski instructor Toni, because he has sliced every oat milk Amazon into small pieces with his sun-tanned mountain doctor charm.
I used to have fun with it. In the ninth grade at the ski camp I learned the basics. By staying seated with pinpoint accuracy, my parents let me ride again in the ninth grade, so that I could refine my skills, only to be able to ride as an assistant ski instructor in the tenth grade.
I was a little genius too. A lazy one these days. With an aversion to cold, crowds and hut music. It's actually a kind of high-altitude carnival. Except that with Andreas Gabalier you suddenly long for the intellectual depth of Höhner.
Incidentally, the friend with the broken foot was allowed to watch a film on video glasses under local anesthetic in the clinic during the operation. "Mission: Impossible" should be it. Due to a small software error it became: "Mister Bean". That says everything about the desire and reality of a skiing holiday.
