Quietude

Hear that?

Me, neither.  That, friends, is the sound of peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet, I mean, other than the sizzling from the OnlyBurger truck just out of frame, which was the best dinner I’ve had since long before I started the New Year’s resolution to sleekify.  For the record, I think shocking your junk-food-deprived body about once a week with something perfect and decadent reminds it that you still love it and want it to be happy.  So far so good.  I have not had to give the NRA one thin dime.

Tangent story, I was at the mall this weekend celebrating the purchase of a sleeker pair of jeans.  I was eyed appreciatively by a trio of seventeen-year-olds, working the gangsta vibe hard, who looked me up and down and gave me the “‘Sup?” nod.  And in my mind I was all, “I know, gentleman, it’s difficult, you wish the girls your age looked this good.”  But that night I had a nightmare that I was wearing my new jeans out at a show, and I had to ask a friend whether they looked ok, and we looked down to discover that I was wearing MOM JEANS.  And every time we looked again, they got worse.  Pleats! Then Giant Pockets! Then Embroidered Flowers!  I woke up traumatized.  What do you suppose that’s about? (Don’t even answer.  It won’t make me feel better.)

But I digress. Peace and quiet.  I have been enjoying a couple of days of enforced peace and quiet after a music marathon:  Onward, Soldiers Thursday at the Pour House; Old 97’s Friday at Cat’s Cradle, and then Yarn Saturday and Robert Earl Keen Sunday at Lincoln Theater.  By Sunday night I was spent.  But I was this close to Robert Earl Keen:

and that dude is a character.  It was worth the rough awakening Monday morning, with four late nights behind me.

I couldn’t even write about it, y’all.  I was going to do a bunch of nice long descriptions about all four shows.  But then the Old 97’s shook my soul on Friday, and I can’t be objective about music again for a little while.  My heart rate has to come back down, and I have to rotate in some music that doesn’t make me stop and do air guitar on the sidewalk when I’m, say, walking to Third Place for a Saturday morning bagel and nobody else can hear my soundtrack. I need to take some deep breaths, and go to yoga, and get my mind right.  But I’m not quite ready yet.

Four late nights in a row was probably a shade too far.  Monday morning, I finally had to acknowledge the office cold I’d been hoping to avoid, although Zicam and Emergen-C and excess sleep are giving it a pretty good run for its money.   This week I was delighted to find that my Google Ads think I’m substantially younger than I am.  However, I still have to admit that a 3 a.m. bedtime at my actual age means feeling hung over the next day, even when I haven’t had anything to drink.  It’s been a while since I’ve pushed it quite this far (after all, I have to be at work at 8 a.m.,) but other than the minor cold and not being able to speak above a low murmur this week, it’s just fine.  This week is all about long walks in the sunshine and early bedtimes, and the loudest sound until next weekend will be the sound of my dryer running.  It is very, very quiet on my couch tonight.

It sounds great.

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