by Robyn Okrant
I push my sunglasses higher up on my nose. Somehow, they feel like armor against the possibility of horrified glances thrown in my direction. I keep reminding myself that the journalist who wrote the article honored my anonymity and that it’s probably a sign of a warped, inflated ego to assume anyone knows who I am. I am definitely excited by the attention that the project has been given, and it’s on the cover, no less. Still, I’m finding myself uncomfortable.
This is Oprah’s city, too, after all. Thousands of people pick up their copies of the Reader religiously every Thursday, and someone on her staff is certain to mention that there is a goofball in Chicago doing everything Winfrey says for a year. I briefly wonder if I’m doing anything that would prompt her to try to shut my project down. I’m not using her likeness, and while I am quoting her on my blog, I’m careful to do so in a precise manner. I suppose I don’t have anything to worry about from Winfrey’s camp, but I’m concerned some of her überfans might think I’m taking Oprah’s name in vain. As I witnessed during the taping of the show, her fans can be extremely emotional, and I worry they might hunt me for sport and eat me for dinner.
Jim points out that I’m breathing funny. I force myself to stop my brain from spinning and try to chill out. I’m a yoga teacher, shouldn’t I have a State of Well-Being Switch?
We notice a woman pick up an abandoned copy of the Reader. She checks out the cover and opens the paper to the article. Jim’s errant elbow finds my ribs again.
“I see her.” I wish my sunglasses were larger, maybe the size of dinner plates.
She glances at the article for about ten seconds, sighs audibly, and then throws the paper on the floor. Jim inhales sharply. This is the first time I’ve ever been litter, and I feel guilty about losing control of my carbon footprint. As we stand up to exit at our stop, I look back at the paper lying on the floor of the car, my photo peering up the dresses of the ladies who are standing aboard the train. My heart feels a little heavy as it dawns on me that people are bound to step on my face.
The next morning, things have returned to normal. I’m more relaxed and my head’s back in the game. I’m flopped on the couch, eating a bowl of oatmeal with antioxidant-laden blueberries (Oprah loves ’em), watching an episode about children of sperm donors. The show is interesting not only because of its sympathetic guests but because its subject matter harkens back to old-school sensational talk show topics. But while lesser talk show hosts might make a spectacle of their guests, Oprah handles them with respect and sophistication.
We have several copies of the Chicago Reader lying on the floor. I haven’t brought myself to read the whole article yet. In truth, the papers make me a little nervous, Oprah’s eyes on the cover seeming to bore into me. I can almost hear her voice demanding answers. “Why, Robyn? Why, when I do so much good in the world, would you do this critique? Doesn’t my good work outweigh the bad? Does it really matter if I use the word ‘vajayjay’ instead of proper anatomical terms for the female anatomy? What are you trying to say with this experiment, you big fraud?” I nudge the papers under the coffee table and the cat bats at them. To my project to-do list, I add “look up ‘conquering self-doubt’ on Oprah.com.”
While I’m trying with all my strength to focus on this morning’s show, I am distracted and know I’ll have to watch this one several times to be certain I haven’t missed a single word. Then I start to giggle as I think of the Oprah-approved baked goods I’ve sent to Jim’s coworkers today. You might recall I attempted a recipe on New Year’s Day, culled from Oprah.com, based on Jessica Seinfeld’s cookbook. The result: tasty blueberry treats with a layer of conspicuous green slime that many of my friends politely avoided or, after taking an obligatory bite, wrapped the remainder in a napkin. Not to be deterred by a less than successful first outing into the exciting world of hiding vegetables in baked goods, I decided to create a recipe Oprah appeared to adore on her show. Who doesn’t love chocolate chip cookies? Oprah seemed amazed, while eating one, that garbanzo beans were hiding amid the chocolate chunks and cookie goodness. “That’s shocking,” she said. “That is shocking, there’s a chickpea in there.” And she repeated once more for good measure, “That is shocking.” Impressive.
As someone who enjoys healthy food, I’m always looking for new ways to convince my husband to put down the slice of pizza and pick up something more nutritious. This can be an uphill battle, so I’m not above trickery. In fact, I’m so tickled by the idea of feeding these goodies to Jim that I had to laugh as I created my shopping list yesterday. I snickered last night as I walked the aisles of the grocery store, dropping ingredients in my cart. I tittered on the bus trip home, bags brimming with chocolate and legumes. And when I actually baked the cookies… you get the idea. I had a pretty amusing evening.
Jim, who might be tempted to eat a tennis shoe if it had chocolate on it, was not too impressed with the cookies. I couldn’t even convince him to have more than one. Still, he was totally excited about the prospect of inflicting… er, I mean… sharing them with his coworkers. He packed up every single cookie, without saving himself a single one, and brought them to the office this morning. I am so eager to learn about the results, I keep clicking refresh on my e-mail to hear the verdict.
Instead, I am surprised by a new interview request. As much as I want to open the e-mail instantly to find out who it’s from, I remember I need to continue savoring every bite of my meal, and although it goes against my driving curiosity, I close my laptop and breathe as I eat. Food is so much more enjoyable when I take time to taste it.
I’m glad I finished breakfast before opening the e-mail or else oats and blueberries would certainly have fallen out of my mouth as my jaw dropped open. The inquiry was sent by a producer from All Things Considered on National Public Radio. I have been listening to this show for as long as I can remember. It’s kept me company in the afternoon at many desk jobs in the past. This e-mail is the equivalent of Ted Turner calling my dad and asking him to play first base for the Atlanta Braves. It’s big. It’s such a big deal for me, I call my mother before I answer the e-mail. After some shared hooting and hollering, I calm down and pretend to be a normal human being as I get back to the producer. We set up an interview for the following week.
I am unable to compartmentalize Living Oprah from my everyday life. It’s all-consuming. However, I am generally able to put this year’s press into a different space in my mind, and keep focused on the matter at hand. I tuck it into the “denial” lobe of my brain, which is highly developed. It’s what allows me to wear my white denim jacket in public and think I look snazzy.
As a person who is mainly involved in creative endeavors, I struggle to find the resources to market my work and frequently rely on newspaper reviews to attract audience members. The theater and performance population in Chicago is massive and competitive. It’s difficult to get the coverage we’d all appreciate. This is a town filled with grassroots PR efforts and guerrilla marketing. Yet, because I imagined no one but my mom would be interested in my blog, I didn’t actively seek out any public attention beyond my daily online journal. I didn’t even bother to write a press release for it. Other bloggers have e-mailed me asking for advice on how to spread the word about their websites. I wish I had more knowledge to share, besides suggesting they write with regularity and hone the focus of their blog. Frankly, I consider myself incredibly lucky, not crafty or clever when it comes to marketing.
I tell my friend Nicky on a brisk walk to Whole Foods, “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m shocked by all the press about Living Oprah.”
Nicky stops short and says, “I don’t think the press is about your project, it’s happening as a result of it.”
I look at Nicky totally confused. She patiently points out that I’m following all of Oprah’s advice and receiving more media attention for my work than I have in the fifteen years I’ve been in the arts. She has me wondering — is Oprah’s advice actually working for me? It’s definitely changing my
life, but is it for the better? I start to get a headache. It feels like a really strong man has his palms on either side of my skull and is pressing as hard as his beefy arms will allow. It’s just too much for me to process. I had intended to be more dispassionate and scientific about this year. I wanted to stay neutral, but the nature of Oprah’s advice and my own personality aren’t allowing me to do this. It’s nearly impossible to perform the project and analyze it at the same time. I need more distance to understand the ramifications.
I start to look forward to the end of December. I was worried this moment might come, but like Dick Clark in warp speed, I begin my countdown to the New Year. Of course, it’s July, so the ball isn’t so much dropping as it is crawling.
July 16, 2008
I’m standing on a crowded bus, heading to the WBEZ studios for my All Things Considered interview. I have such a big grin on my face my cheeks hurt. I’m excited but have the worst dry mouth I’ve ever experienced. I’m worried I might make an ass out of myself on a national level. I transfer from one bus to the next on my route and feel like I’ll never arrive. Public transportation seems to be moving in slow motion, but the clock’s hands are in fast forward. We’re taping in about 45 minutes. The interview will be done remotely: I’ll be in a studio in Chicago and the host, Michele Norris, will be in Washington, D.C.
My cell phone vibrates, indicating I’ve missed a phone call from the ATC producer. I can barely understand his message on this loud bus, and I decide it’s best to hop off and walk the rest of the way. He’s got bad news for me that sends me reeling. He tells me that the show will not do anonymous interviews. I’m confused. I’m not trying to conceal any information from NPR (I’ve already given him my name and other personal information), I simply want to keep my identity private from the listening audience. He apologizes. I insist it’s an integral part of the project and I really don’t want to divulge my name. Nothing can be done, it’s the show’s policy. He tries to convince me to do the interview anyhow, saying that more good could come out of it than bad. I’m getting upset and nervous. I’ve bent over backward this year to keep my name secret.
I begin to get angry that this wasn’t discussed with me before I agreed to do the interview. Anonymity has kept me feeling safe enough to be vulnerable and unfiltered on my blog. I want Oprah to be the Big Personality this year, while I allow my own identity to get lost in the sea of her audience. I try to wheel and deal with the producer in order to maintain my privacy, but to no avail. He really can’t budge, and I understand it’s not his decision to make. I ask if he can give me a moment and I’ll call him back. He is patient with me and nicely says I can have some time.
I’m hyper now. I start to build a scattered pro-con list in my mind. I feel the clock ticking and make some frantic phone calls to Jim, my mom, my friend Grace, the producer of the show, my mom again, Jim, Grace, my newly acquired literary agent (who probably thinks I’m nuts), my mom. I can feel myself going so far over my cell phone minutes that I wonder if stock in US Cellular is shooting through the roof. I’m pacing back and forth in front of the building’s entrance, the valets watching the crazy lady gesticulating madly and huffing and puffing like a rhino.
I feel ambushed by the show. And I feel like a bad person that I’m angry at public radio, the most innocuous of all media. During my chats with the producer in the past minutes, he’s been very persuasive. This would give my project a new platform, and who knows if I’ll ever receive such an amazing opportunity again. If I’m attempting to make any sort of statement by doing this, why am I so frightened to take the plunge? While I usually bemoan the difficulty and competition of being a creative type, maybe I’ve gotten comfortable and accepted that I shouldn’t expect a wider audience for my work. I also wonder if I’m afraid of the new level of accountability this could bring.
I’m ridiculous. We’re at war, the economy is crumbling, the polar ice caps are melting, and I’m making a big deal about whether or not I should show my face on the radio. I force myself to consider WWOD? What would Oprah do?
I tell myself that before she could create the program of her dreams, Oprah had to step into prevailing talk show protocol and master those rules. Only when she created a foothold for herself was she able to bring about evolution of the existing format. So while my anonymity may be important to me, I might need to be flexible to cultivate my project. I’m not entirely convinced it’s the right thing to do, but I decide to step waaaay outside my comfort zone and do the interview.
But then I think about the time, early in her career, a local news show wanted Oprah to change her name to a less distinctive, easier to remember moniker than her own: Suzie. She told the news director no. The Baltimore audience would just have to learn to accept an anchor by the name of Oprah Winfrey. Now that’s integrity. It might have been easier to bend to the will of the people writing her paycheck, but she knew that giving up her identity to keep a job was not the right decision. Clearly, this worked out well for Oprah. I should stick to my guns, too, and decide not to do the interview.
But my project is about the effect that the media has on women. Why would I turn down the opportunity to see my project from the inside and allow myself to be directly impacted by the press? Why am I so afraid? I shudder at the thought: Everyone will know my name. The line between my personal life and my public blog persona will be permanently blurred. Just like it is for Oprah. Okay, okay, it’s a microscopic version of what Oprah experiences. Still, I have speculated about how Oprah finesses the divide between her public and private life. Maybe I should take advantage of this opportunity to open myself up to the same analysis.
I stop short. I made myself a deal when I began this project to be receptive to whatever resulted from it. Oprah preaches that we should be true to our personal intention, so I’m going to stick to mine. My world has been so safe this year, as I’ve allowed someone else to make all my choices for me. It’s time for me to suck it up and take a risk. So why am I still pacing around, driving myself crazy? My mother, on the other end of the phone call, wonders the same thing. I dial the producer’s phone number and get ready to go on the air.
July 19, 2008
Luckily, I have breathing room built into my year. A couple days after my NPR interview I get out of Dodge for some work-related travel. True, yoga teachers don’t usually go on business trips. You generally don’t see us running through the airport to catch a connecting flight, swinging yoga mat–shaped briefcases over our heads and yelling, “Hold the plane! Hold the plane! Namaste! OMMMMMM!” Yet here I am, traveling to New England for some additional yoga teacher training. Plus, the great news is, I’m taking Oprah’s suggested “weekend getaway” at my parents’ home before the workshop begins. I wish Jim could have traveled with me, but it wasn’t in the budget. I miss him. Hanging with the folks is great, though, and while shopping with my mom, I find a couple tunic tops for the summer months. I can finally replace those winter tunics in my closet’s must-have section. (Besides, one of my friends informed me what I was calling a tunic was, in reality, just a really big shirt.)
When Sunday rolls around, I arrive at Kripalu, a yoga and healthful living retreat in Massachusetts. I’m here to learn how to better assist my yoga students with scoliosis. One of the reasons I became a yoga teacher was to help people avoid or manage back pain. This program allows me to specialize in an area about which I am passionate. I’m excited but am still balancing how I can get the most out of this experience without taking a vacation from the project.
There is no television here at the retreat. Anywhere. Jim is taping every episode of Oprah I miss, so I’ll have to watch those when I get back to Chicago. Still, I commit to blogging every day and maintaining Oprah’s lifestyle suggestions even when I’m far away from home. I kick this off immediately by choosing to take all my meals in the silent dining room, where I am able to savor my food in quiet comfort. The only sound is a mountain breeze whooshing through the window, and muffled chattering and the cl
attering of silverware from the main dining hall.
There is a warm feeling in this place of peace, generosity, acceptance, simplicity, and a focus on health. These are many of the qualities Oprah teaches us on a daily basis, but there are so many conflicting messages on her show that I am frequently filled with too much turmoil to enjoy these lessons entirely. Being in this place is so different. No one gives a hoot if I’m dressed like a schlumpadinka, no one’s trying to conquer the world. The emphasis here is on being rather than doing. And the mirrors here are tiny. I can’t imagine anyone hunting down a full-length reflection to see if her yoga pants make her butt look fat.
There is clarity here that I haven’t experienced all year, and my initial thought is it’s because I’m not striving to make myself, my home, or my world rise up to someone else’s definition of beauty. Instead, I’m asked to find and appreciate the beauty in everything about and around me without judgment. It’s more relaxing when I’m not worried about measuring up and I’m not feeling as confined by the fear that I’m doing things in a manner Oprah might pooh-pooh. I’m not saying I want to live in an environment like this full-time. I’d miss the fall lineup of television shows, and that would blow my peace of mind immediately. I am saying I’m having my doubts about finding true happiness as a result of Living Oprah.
I really do miss the blog community, though. I didn’t bring my laptop with me and I’m regretting it. I have a smart phone with a tiny keyboard, however. I’ve been writing out my blog posts longhand, and then I thumb them into my phone. I send them to my mother, who corrects them and puts them online. As Sly and the Family Stone sang, “It’s a Family Affair.” I am lucky that my mom’s a high school teacher and has the summer off to help me out. I’m not sure how I’d make this happen otherwise. I’m on the phone with her frequently: before yoga class, after yoga class, on breaks. My program is an intensive one. It’s physically, mentally, and emotionally pretty draining, and Mom’s taking a huge amount of pressure off of me by acting as my online eyes and ears. She’s reading me people’s comments when I can’t get Internet access through my phone, and acting as my gal Friday. I don’t even have to provide her with dental insurance.