Living Oprah

by Robyn Okrant

  I tell myself I’m just doing research as I check out Oprah’s former personal chef’s recipes on her website. Art Smith isn’t putting any chickpeas in his desserts, that’s for sure. If I had a drug of choice, it might be his Hummingbird Cake. Salivating, I force myself to turn off the computer and go for a bike ride.

  On the topic of avoiding emotional eating, the Best Life contract troubles me. Oprah really likes having us put things in writing in order to prove our commitment. When I ask my readers to let me know if they are still following their contract, my usually full in-box is devoid of incoming e-mail. I look up the word “contract” on Oprah’s website and the search comes up with countless entries. There’s even a scanned copy of the 2002 contract that Oprah wrote and signed to commit to a six-week program of healthy eating and exercise. Bob Greene signed it as her witness. That’s pretty formal. I’ve created contracts with myself in the past and swore I’d exercise more, eat better, save money, stop procrastinating. They never panned out for me. Maybe I should have had them notarized or something. When I inevitably failed at whatever pledge I made, I really hated myself for it. After I dealt several such blows to my self-esteem, I decided I’d never sign one again.

  Until this year, of course. I was not too happy when I had to commit to the Best Life contract in January. Based on past experiences, I was worried it might derail me. Luckily, I’m hanging tough. I am trying to make the successful completion of Living Oprah my goal, rather than fixing or changing my body.

  My fidelity to this specific food- and exercise-related component of the project has had physical ramifications. I started working with a personal trainer and I’ve gotten a bit slimmer and definitely more muscular. Now when I wear my white jeans and white denim jacket, I don’t feel like I’m promoting the baby beluga whale exhibit down at the aquarium.

  I’m far more confident about my body. I feel strong and can honestly say I usually like what I see when I look in the mirror… which my husband gingerly tells me I’m doing all the time now. I laugh this off, but truthfully, I’m quite embarrassed. He’s right. There were pre-LO days when I don’t think I even looked in the mirror once before I left for work. It wasn’t lack of self-esteem that drove this ignorance of my appearance, it simply wasn’t a high priority for me. Now the way I look when I leave the house has a definitive impact on how I feel.

  I can’t say exactly when my appearance obsession began this year, but if I had a nickel for every time I checked my appearance in a reflection, I might have enough money to join an exclusive members-only resort in Florida. At the very least, I could afford to make those turkey burgers again. I miss them. I’ve caught the cat staring at me as I strain to look at my butt in an outfit and end up walking in circles as I look over my own shoulder like a dog chasing its tail. Vanity 1, Dignity 0.

  Most of my friends think I look great, and I get lots of positive comments on my body, but my husband isn’t quite sure my changed physique is worth my moments of narcissism. Plus, he points out, it takes a lot longer for me to get ready to leave the house in the morning. He insists I’m always asking him if an outfit makes me look heavy or older than my 35 years. I hear the frustration in his voice but also feel he just doesn’t understand. To placate him, I show him my muscular arms.

  “Look!” I tell him enthusiastically. “They don’t waddle when I wave good-bye anymore!”

  I yank my short sleeve over my shoulder so he can clearly see my whole arm, and I wave at him several different ways, with varying speed and vigor. I beam with pride. He stares at me in silence.

  “Stop saying that.”

  Oprah states this unequivocally, and I feel like she’s speaking to most of the women I know, including me. Maria Shriver is visiting the show, and the discussion centers around how many of us reduce our own value by the language we choose to define ourselves. It’s been pointed out that we use words like “just,” as in “I’m just a yoga teacher.” We give ourselves demotions in importance before anyone else can. I’ve been noticing this when I reconnect with female friends whom I haven’t seen since high school or college. If I ask what they’re doing in life these days, they usually answer, “I’m just a stay-at-home mom” or “I just work in an office.” It’s as if they’re apologizing for their existence, telling me they know how much of a failure they are, before I can judge them. And I answer back, “I’m just writing a blog.”

  I think it’s great that Oprah’s telling us to cut it out. I wonder if she can relate to us at all, however, when and why we feel like we need to use this type of language. Saying, “I’m just Oprah” doesn’t really have the same resonance. She’s usually a good example. For instance, she’s chosen not to raise children, but she never doubts her decision publicly. She doesn’t openly bemoan her paths not taken. There’s no reason for us to do so, either, simply because we’ve chosen different priorities from one another.

  The very first day I put this on my Oprah to-do list, I catch myself almost falling into that old self-derision trap a few times. I nearly did it once in reference to my writing, once in reference to my age, and once regarding the fact that I don’t have kids. This is going to be a toughie — the emotional assignments usually are. I have to ask myself whom I’m trying to please and whom I think I need to impress. Years ago, I was advised that if I’m constantly judging myself and I’m worrying about the judgment of others, then I should also look to see if I’m placing judgments on other women. These actions tend to go hand in hand. They perpetuate each other.

  As I watch the show with Oprah and Shriver, I start to get uncomfortable as I consider my involvement in this cycle of criticism and judgment. We all talk about how much pressure we put on ourselves. I do, Oprah does, Oprah’s guests and audience do. But I think that’s just part of the problem. It seems to me that not only do we have incredibly high expectations of ourselves, but many of us also have the same standards for each other. If we are busting our butts to live our best lives, shouldn’t everyone else?

  Grace and I frequently marvel over a friend of hers who is a prolific and successful writer, an entrepreneur, a mother, a wife, has a beautiful home, works out, and always looks amazing. We talk about how remarkable this woman is whenever we’re feeling overwhelmed. I think of another acquaintance who is a stay-at-home mom, taking a break from her career to raise her kids. The last time I saw her, she was wearing mismatched socks and had peanut butter in her hair (from her son’s lunch). She wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about it. Why doesn’t that warrant an “amazing” from my lips? I have a tendency to be more impressed by women who appear to choose their cake recipe, bake it, ice it, and eat it, too. This is a trend in the majority of my peers. We’re go-for-it gals who are inspired by others of the same ilk.

  Perhaps this is why Oprah tends to impress us so much. She appears to have the ability to keep all her plates spinning, and let’s face it, she must have a ton of china. As overwhelmed as I feel on a daily basis, I don’t understand why I look up to women who give the impression of working 25 hours a day, eight days a week. I already feel like I’m running at capacity and don’t want to take anything else on my shoulders. Yet I look at Oprah and think I should be able to squeeze in just one more project. Clearly, I’m confused. But I’m also right where Oprah needs me to be. I am a target audience member. I need to learn to prioritize, to achieve my life’s goals, to relax, to strengthen my relationships. No need to look for any other outlet when I can learn all about these things in the one hour of television viewing I consume each morning. The Oprah show is one-stop emotional shopping for the modern woman who wants every aspect of her life to feel satisfying and full.

  I took a test today on Oprah.com called the Satisfaction with Life Scale. I found it when I saw this on her home page: “How happy are you? Take the quiz.” I was in a pretty good mood and felt game for it. I went in thinking I’d score relatively high since I think of myself as quite delighted by life in general. Imagine my disappointment when the test results conclude I’
m only moderately happy. It totally soured my disposition. I, in turn, created a one question quiz called the “How Annoyed Am I at Having My Feelings Diagnosed by a Five-Question Quiz?” I score off the charts on that one.

  I do a little more hunting on Oprah.com and find another exam, The Are You Happy quiz. This one, which originally appeared in her magazine in 2004, is made up of 24 multiple-choice questions. I score 66, which came with the explanation, “If you scored between 50 and 72, congratulations! Consider yourself a happy person.” HA! I knew it. I am happy. Eat that, Satisfaction with Life Scale!

  What is it with all the quizzes? They are in magazines, on television, online. I remember taking magazine quizzes with girlfriends as far back as junior high school. They used to be quite exciting when I was young. I would thrill at the possibility of learning what type of boy would make the perfect date or what my future job would be. There seemed to be a disconnect between my test results and real life, however. My dream boy must not have gotten the memo as I didn’t get asked out once in high school. And as far as my dream occupation was concerned, archeologist was a far cry from my job scooping ice cream. I had to contend with puberty before I’d be invited on any digs.

  Nowadays, I put as much faith in these tests as I do in the mood ring I haven’t worn in years. The only difference between them is that the happiness quiz doesn’t turn my finger green. But while I continue out of habit to take them, they exemplify my trouble with talk show advice in general: They offer up one-size-fits-all diagnoses to life’s complicated questions. I think human beings are far too nuanced for multiple-choice questions. At worst, these tests push us even further away from developing and trusting our own intuition. At best, they waste a bit of time and provide some diversion from real self-examination. I worry that I’m beginning to sound bitter, a choleric stick-in-the-mud, raining on everyone else’s magazine quiz parade. I do a little hunting on Oprah.com for some answers and come upon a test created by Martha Beck called Are You Screaming on the Inside? When I first try to take it, the website is down, which really annoys me. When it’s finally up and running, my results are: “There are times when you act more passively than you want. Learn more about the situations that make you angry to see where you can assert yourself.” I run a search on Oprah’s site: “Where should I assert myself?” I get twenty pages of results in return. Holy crap, that’s a lot of asserting.

  I’m in mourning. My love affair with Dr. Oz’s appearances on Oprah has ended. I’m officially sick of seeing the doctor. I know it’s a drastic change. It was with much excitement that I anticipated seeing him at the beginning of the year. Now, if I glimpse the slightest hint of surgical scrubs, I get a little stomachache and have to pop a Tums. I still love health-related episodes, but I’m just tired of the man Oprah has dubbed America’s Doctor.

  I’ve grown wary of his transition from medical professional into TV star. Television may grant credibility, but it can also taketh away. When Oprah transformed Bob Greene into a celebrity, he jumped on the product endorsement bandwagon, and it made me trust his intentions less. I suppose there is a piece of me that’s waiting for Dr. Oz to do the same. It’s just a matter of time before I see his name emblazoned on a loaf of whole grain bread or his face silk-screened onto a yoga mat. He will have his own show next year, produced in part by Harpo Productions. He’s been under Oprah’s tutelage for so long now, it’s no surprise he’ll carry on the proud tradition of Winfrey spin-offs. As The Jeffersons and (my favorite) Maude were to All in the Family, Dr. Phil, Rachel Ray, and now Dr. Oz are to Oprah. He’s had an amazing apprenticeship with Oprah, but I have my doubts if he’ll be able to infotain an audience five days a week. Because I believe knowledge is power when it comes to our bodies, I hope he does teach people to become empowered about their health. Just because I don’t plan to watch doesn’t mean he won’t be incredibly popular. I don’t tune into Rachel Ray or Dr. Phil, either, and my absence certainly doesn’t hurt their ratings. Who knows, with Oprah’s support, a little luck, and a great director, Mehmet Oz might be the next Bea Arthur.

  * * *

  Guess whose eyes gleam and whose face breaks into a broad smile as she shouts out, “We love shoes!” Oprah extolls her love of all things soled, and because of her definitive language, now I will as well. At least, I’m trying to develop strong feelings for them. Oprah beams with happiness and I try to catch her footwear fever. Whenever she tells us how we feel and I’m at odds with her emotions, I do my best to whip myself into the appropriate depth of feeling. I’ve been told that I love Cher, designer outfits, and that I’m certain to love the must-see movies she sends her audience to view. So far, so good. I’ve had to get a little creative at times, but I’ve managed to open myself up to whatever Oprah leads me to treasure. Usually it’s easy because Winfrey’s energy is infectious. No wonder companies pray she’ll endorse their products. Every woman I know is an empathetic creature, and most of us are emotional sponges, easily caught up in one another’s energy. If Oprah, the most successful self-made woman I can think of, says she loves a panini maker, then her words pack a wallop. Just ask my breasts. They’re sitting in Oprah’s favorite bra right now.

  After I write my blog for the morning, I peruse this month’s O magazine. It’s as if the editorial staff has read my mind. I can’t afford to have my gray roots touched up professionally, and my clumsy at-home hair dyeing is leaving something to be desired. My bathroom always looks like the set of Psycho after the infamous shower scene. Also, nothing seems to stay on my stubborn grays long enough to fool anyone taller than me. I’ve caught Jim’s eyes flitting away from the part in my hair, as if he hadn’t been staring.

  While the rules of my project are to follow only the advice I receive directly from Oprah’s lips or pen, I’m occasionally tempted to try non-Winfrey suggestions, recipes, and products mentioned in O. It’s just so darn pretty. And I’m thrilled to see a one-pager on “the best” hair dye this month. There’s one fancy-schmancy brand, which I wish I could afford, but given that I have to dye my fast-growing hair every three to four weeks, there’s no way I can swing it. It’s $30 a box! Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of an upscale home hair dye kit. Isn’t that an oxymoron? The other Oprah-approved dye that I’m going to try is cheaper, at $14 a box (which is still $5 more than my usual product). I hope it works. I’m not emotionally prepared to be a 30-something silver fox.

  I go purchase some dye, read the directions, and coat my hair accordingly. Waiting for the timer to ring so I can wash the chemicals off my head, I open O magazine.

  This month’s “What I Know for Sure” column has been my favorite. Oprah takes us on a walk down memory lane and shares with us how she grew her company on instinct and gut feelings. I admire that she built the foundation of her empire on intuition. That’s a tool we can all develop. Not many people are brave enough to trust their inner voice to take such bold risks. I greatly respect Oprah for this quality and her willingness to share her experience with her readers.

  While her words have the power to inspire, they can also confuse me. I’ll admit to you that this happens to me frequently when I tackle some self-help terminology. The words sound beautiful at first but become emptier the more I read them. This month’s offering had my brow knitted as I read and reread it. “Each of us represents our own life brand. And using your instinct and feelings as your personal GPS puts you in a position to make the best choices for you.” It is lovely-sounding initially, but after I give it further thought in order to implement it in my own life, I am flummoxed by the language and catchphrases. Maybe my inner GPS is low on batteries, because I’m feeling a little lost in Oprah’s words. I think this is one of the things I appreciate about her columnist Martha Beck. Her words are imaginative, and I am never discombobulated by her choice of metaphor. But Martha Beck is Martha Beck and Oprah is Oprah. It’s like comparing apples to media moguls.

  I recall some philosophy from A New Earth. Basically, Tolle writes that the essence of a pers
on can never be defined in words. Language is merely a human construct, created to represent the world around us. It can never completely define the truth, because as a facsimile, it is fundamentally limited. This was one of my favorite sections in Tolle’s book. It really resonated with me, but it also deflated some of the power that I felt when reading Oprah’s GPS metaphor. I wonder how she contends with this in her daily life when much of her industry is powered by words meant to lead us toward our authentic selves. It’s a complicated dilemma. I pin the word “clarity” to my vision board and hope for the best.

  The timer rings and I jump in the shower to wash the dye out of my hair. I’m really pleased with the results. Oprah’s staff was right — this stuff works great. My locks look fabulous. Then I realize I must have accidentally allowed the goop to drip down my face. I now have a matching set of muttonchop sideburns to match my dark brown curls. I look like a cross between Elvis Presley and Wolverine.

  This morning, I watch Oprah personally endorse another product, a pink cell phone with three months’ worth of coverage. I’ll never get used to the insanity that follows one of these announcements, and distracted, my mind starts to wander all over the place. If there are aliens flying around in spacecraft learning everything they can about humankind by watching Oprah, they might think the most effective way to distract a woman is through free gifts. I wonder if this is how they might divert our attention when they want to take over the planet, their tinny voices projecting from their ships, “New bubblegum-hued gadgets for all human women!” And then they’d sit back, crossing their multiple pairs of arms smugly, waiting for us all to start screaming and jumping up and down in a blind frenzy so they can invade Earth. Would we be deaf to the destructive explosions around us in our ecstasy over our new toys?