des·ue·tude /ˈdɛswɪˌtud, -ˌtyud/. Noun. The state of disuse or inactivity. That which is no longer used.
My body has been in a state of desuetude for the last four days. I spent last weekend soaking up music and sun and ocean breezes during our annual sojourn at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park. I estimate that I put about 5-10 miles on these old bones each day, easily. On top of that, I spent a good portion of each day shaking my bones to the likes of Irma Thomas, Ruthe Foster, Del McCoury and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, and Robert Plant for crissakes; how can a girl not shake her ass to Robert Plant? I don't care how old he is, that voice penetrates me to my core. Sunday was the capper. I danced like a dervish to Devil Makes Three at Arrow Stage and practically ran to the Star Stage to catch Dr. John and the Lower 911. A bunch of little hippie girls and I danced a second line in the late summer dust and I led the parade; those little girls couldn't keep up. It's been a long times since I've danced up a dust cloud and left blisters on my bare feet. This old girl has a few steps left in her soles. I was twirling in the dirt, shaking my skirt, sweaty, caked, sated. Took me way back to the old days campers; it felt good.
Blistered and sun burned, we drove the 300 mile trip home on Monday. I went to work first thing Tuesday morning and walked into a veritable shit storm at the office. Worked like a field hand until 5 pm, left the office and ran straight across the street to sound check for Jesse's "Covers for a Cause" Green Show. Jesse, Bob Hackett and I tore the place down with a medley of mountain tunes. I played till 7:30 and by the time I got home, I had a runny nose. Clearly, my body had had enough.
My immune system called a general strike. I woke up Wednesday morning sick as a dog. I'm talking dizzy, sneezy, sniffly, feverish, completely unable to function sick. I haven't been that sick in years. I missed work for the rest of the week. I very rarely take sick leave, but I could barely make it down the stairs, much less drive to town. For the first time in my musical career, I had to back out of a gig on Friday. I was laid low.
I'm finally upright again, functioning at about 60%. I guess I found my limit. But, if that's the price of dancing like a wild woman in the dust like I'm 22 again, I'll pay it and gladly.
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