I could have definitely leaned over and grabbed his face and given him a big kiss on the forehead. I wanted to, and I should have, and it’s my number one regret in life.
By now, you might be wondering what my number two and number three regrets are in life, and I wouldn’t want you to go on wondering because wondering can cause headaches and other ailments.
Number 2: I didn’t save. I wanted to, I should have, and it’s my number two regret in life.
Number 3: I didn’t learn a second language. I wanted to, I should have, and it’s my number three regret in life.
Back to my number one regret in life… I should have kissed Thom Yorke on the forehead when I had my chance! (I should have also kissed him on the cheek and/or lips!)
You see, for me, forehead kissing is one of the nicest, most loving things you can do to someone – to show your appreciation and fondness for that person and/or their musical achievements.
When will I ever again casually run into Thom Yorke and be close enough to plant one on him?
There are almost 7 billion people on this earth, and Thom Yorke is only one of them (and I’m another one), so the likelihood of our paths crossing again seems quite slim.
In case you don’t know… Thom Yorke is the wispy, hip and extremely hunky (though not in an obvious way) lead singer of the English rock band, Radiohead. If you don’t know who Radiohead is, then I can’t help you. (Radiohead has sold over 30 million records worldwide, and I’m responsible for five of those records, including OK Computer, which is one of my favourite albums EVER.)
So I’m shopping for Danish modern furniture in the once hip, now probably cliché neighborhood of Silver Lake, because you need furniture – and you may as well get the kind that’s Danish and modern.
I’m looking around the store, and I’m seeing a lot of furniture that is both Danish and modern, and I’m considering what might suit my humble abode, and then I hear the little doorbell tinkle and in steps Thom Yorke.
And I know immediately it’s him.
I nudge my husband, and whisper, “its Thom Yorke.” My husband looks over at Thom Yorke, squints, and then nods his agreement in my general direction. My heart starts racing, my palms start sweating, and as Thom Yorke casually strolls through the store – looking super cool in a nonchalant man bun kind of way – I try to remain calm with some breathing techniques, and I think about what I should say to him…
“Hi Thom. Is it okay to call you Thom? Should I be pronouncing the “h” in your name? Is it Th-om? Anyway, I’m a fan. Not the kind that winnows grain, or the instrument used to produce a current of air, or even the movement of a peacock’s feathers to reveal his impressive plumage – I’m just a person that’s enthusiastic about a musician or group. Like, your band Radiohead for instance. Anyway, I like your band almost to the point of love, and I’d like to kiss your face. I was thinking your forehead but I’m open to suggestions…”
And then, right as I was about to summon the courage, I heard the doorbell tinkle, and he was gone. Just as quickly as he entered the door, the store, and my heart – he exited, out of the store, and out of my life.*
Thom, if you’re reading this (and why wouldn’t he read some 30-something Canadian woman’s comedic musings?), I love you, I love your music, and I owe you one.
* Obviously I chased him down the road, but couldn’t find him.