From Miami to West Palm Beach to New York, I could only look on from a distance insurmountable by all but the most creatively launched underwear. He could see nothing past the first few rows.
But I never gave up hope that one day I would be close enough to hurl my own underthings onto the stage where he would scoop them up, admire the rows of pink and blue bunnies and squint into the crowd in the direction from which they had flown. A connection would be made. A song written. A bathtub filled. Something like that.
Years went by. The last time I saw him was in Miami. He was so far away I had to use the binoculars to see him on the big screen.
Then last night, with very little warning, I found myself practically holding his hand.
It began with a broken blender. Defying all expectations that winter would continue forever, a patch of sunlight had appeared in Chicago over the weekend. But in my enthusiasm for making mango Margaritas, a blender was shattered...
And that was how I found myself backstage at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra having the following conversation with the handsome English rock star whose music is the soundtrack for the soft porn movie all women carry around in their heads.
Me: "Do you have any applications for middle-age groupies? Because I could really use a job."
Handsome English Rock Star: "Excuse me?"
I am just kidding. It actually went like this:
Me: "Have you ever signed an iPod? I have a Sharpie."
Handsome English Rock Star: "Sure." He takes the iPod and the Sharpie, holds the pen out for me to pull the cap off (rock stars do not uncap their own pens, apparently) and signs with a flourish that covers the entire back of the iPod.
" Hey!" I say. "Leave some room for Tori Amos."
Sting looks up. "I'm joking," I say.
He points to a teeny little space in the corner. "Tori can sign here."
I am not sure how Tori is going to feel about this.
Later I take this picture:
I am joking, of course. We are just good friends.