#but he has barely any experience for stuff not related to being a nation

[putagal]

what do you do when it's 1600, you just gained independence a few years ago and now you're at war with this guy but you end up going to bed with him half of the time?

if tumblr deletes this!! oopsies??? anyways

[pashterlengkap]

I started to panic when I turned 60. But it wasn’t the usual mid-life crisis.

I recently turned sixty. Don’t worry, I don’t have a list of sixty pieces of advice I’ve learned over the years. But I did recently refer to myself as “middle-aged.” To which a friend quipped, “Oh, really? So you’re planning to live to be a hundred and twenty?” Related: My mom’s gay best friend was a boisterous, chain-smoking alcoholic. He taught me so much. There are almost eight billion people on the planet — and there are exactly that many different ways to live. Later, I did a a Google search on “middle-aged” and, at least according to Merriam-Webster, it means the period of life from about 45 to about 64. Never Miss a Beat Subscribe to our daily newsletter to stay ahead of the latest LGBTQ+ political news and insights. Promotions (occasional) * Week in Good News (one on the Weekend) * Week in Review (one on the Weekend) * Daily Brief (one each weekday) * Sign Up I thought about throwing this in my friend’s face, but you know the old political expression: If you’re explaining, you’re losing. The truth is, my friend had a point. No matter how Merriam-Webster defines my age, there’s now considerably less time in front of me than there is behind me. Previously, getting older has never bothered me. Turning thirty, forty, and fifty didn’t faze me at all. It’s partly because my life has mostly only gotten better with each passing decade. But as I approached my sixtieth, something did feel different. But what? Did I see myself in some new way now? Less capable? Less relevant? Was I worried about dying? I pondered my feelings, trying to figure it out. But it didn’t seem like any of that. My husband, Brent, and I are currently in Sydney, Australia in a beach suburb called Cronulla. It’s a very special place to me because when I lived here as a high school exchange student, the experience transformed me. As soon as we arrived Cronulla, I started planning all of the things I wanted to do: * Catch up with old friends. * Hike the nearby Royal National Park. * Hike the other nearby park, Kamay National Park. * Walk the coastline to the north and south. * Spend the afternoons body-surfing in the water and swimming in the rock pools. * Walk the Esplanade and catch the sunrise every morning and the sunset every night. * Take loads of pictures. * And oh yeah, continue my full-time job producing a newsletter with Brent. Looking back, I can see I may have been being a little, uh, manic. Making matters worse, Sydney’s spring weather wasn’t cooperating. I couldn’t do half the stuff I wanted. I started to feel very, very frustrated. Mania turned to, well, panic. Because I really wanted to do all of the things on my list. No, I needed to do them. This wasn’t normal behavior for me. Make no mistake: As Brent and I travel the world, I always want to make the most of my time wherever we live. Brent might tell you that when it comes to sightseeing, I am often a bit driven. But this frantic urgency boiling inside me felt different. I might not have known what it was or what was causing it, but I knew I didn’t like it. One Saturday, Brent was scheduled to be busy all day online with some friends. I decided to do one of the coastal walks I had planned. As I researched my day, I discovered two of the walks weren’t far from to each other. If I did them back-to-back, I could kill two birds with one stone! Early Saturday morning, I shot out of the house. I started in Bondi Beach where I had also planned to take pictures of the murals along the boardwalk. But I moved so fast, snapping pictures all the while, that I barely noticed the murals or the coast. I left Bondi behind and headed north, but a number of sections were closed, which meant long detours. The legs that were open were, quite frankly, boring. I wasn’t happy. I finally reached Watsons Bay, near the end of my first walk. The best part was supposed to be the… http://dlvr.it/T0dk25