by Robyn Okrant
– “Be sure to check him [Dr. Oz] out on XM156, Oprah and Friends, and also on our section of Oprah.com. Keep those questions coming.”
– Ten Secrets to a Better Love Life
– Get Rolfed.
– Burt’s Bees Eye Cream and Ageless Night Cream
– “Going out to work every day, which every man does who is responsible for his family, after a while men feel taken for granted that they are doing that… so there needs to be some acknowledgment of that.”
– “The truth of the matter is, men do need to be made to feel like they’re winners. They do need to have themselves built up.”
– “Go to Oprah.com for more of Suze’s advice on how to survive these tough times.”
– “So, if you or somebody you know needs help with addiction and finding treatment in your area, call the National Drug and Alcohol Addiction Hotline.”
– “You have to do your own self-test.” (re: breast self-exam)
– Oprah says we gals are too judgmental of each other and we should support our fellow women instead of criticizing them.
– “One of the reasons I was interested in telling this story on the air is not just for us to be voyeurs, but for each person who is listening today to look in your own life and ask, Who do you need to forgive?”
– “Ask yourself, What can I live without?”
– “We need to shift the way we think about living our lives. And it really is about bringing us all back to living within our means.”
– “Be nice.”
– “Okay, we’re going to stretch” (to release the physical tension that gathers due to stress over money).
– “Vote at the grocery stores” for how I feel about cruelty to farm animals.
– “We need to learn to be more civil to each other.”
– “Ask yourself this, Are you rude?”
– “Be more gracious to everybody.”
– “Find out how to get paid for doing what you love.”
– “Following your passion, allowing yourself to be paid for what you love will give you a meaningful life.”
– “Do what you love and the money will come.”
Accounting Abbreviations: LO = Living Oprah Project Task, SHOW = The Oprah Winfrey Show, WEB = Oprah.com, MAG = O, The Oprah Magazine, BC = Oprah’s Book Club, BLC = Best Life Challenge, (O) = ongoing project
Photo © Jim Stevens
Oprah’s right - beans ARE healthy and thrifty… but they are also really heavy to carry home from the grocery store!
Blog: Clean Up Your Messy House Tour: http://www.livingoprah.com/2008/11/cleanliness-is-next-to-oprahness.html
Blog: Beauty: http://www.livingoprah.com/2008/11/frowning-causes-wrinkles.html
Blog: Dreams of Oprah: http://www.livingoprah.com/2008/11/i-dream-of-oprah.html
DECEMBER:
Light at the end of the tunnel
Time spent this month: 64 hours, 59 minutes
Dollars spent this month: $429.17
But I don’t even like sandwiches: “A panini maker is the thing to have.”
Wasn’t all my 2008 Best Life work enough? I see several promotions telling me to sign up for the 2009 Best Life program.
Words that stuck: “Can we take a vacation now?” — Jim at midnight on December 31
I PREFER a marathon to a sprint. The everyday minutiae that went into the first eleven months of this project were right up my alley. At times, it was an exhausting test of my endurance and sometimes surprisingly frustrating, but I rarely considered removing my nose from the grindstone. And yet, as I enter the last month of Living Oprah, I feel as if I might not have enough fuel in my tank or willpower to get me to the end of the year. In the grand scheme of things, 31 days are only a drop in the bucket, but I’m just plain tired.
Hindsight is 20/20 and I’ve just realized a severe error in my earlier planning. Back in January, I decided to leave the fun-sounding assignments, without date requirements, until the end of the year. I imagined December to be a joyride, filled with movies, fun little decorating and cooking projects, and easy items I might tick off my list with the greatest of ease. What a miscalculation. The problem is, there are so many of these tidbits, I am up to my eyeballs in to-dos. Additionally, I’ve adopted so many new behaviors due to Oprah’s suggestions, my days are filled with new habits and tics, from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep at night.
Even in slumber, I’m not totally free. My recurring nightmare about rearranging the furniture in my home has been replaced by dreams starring Oprah Winfrey. I’ve dreamed about meeting her while I’m traveling by airplane, by El, and by bicycle. In these dreams, I’m always on the go, and she sits down across from me, next to me, or in the case of my bike dream, chases me in a car. I am feeling stifled and weirdly paranoid as she’s now making appearances in my subconscious. When I wake in the middle of the night due to anxiety, I rush to my laptop and search Oprah.com for advice about how to catch some shut-eye. I’ve reached my saturation point, it’s official. I’ve placed myself under Oprah’s thumb 24 hours a day. It’s a little like George Orwell’s 1984, but the clothes are more flattering.
There are moments I’m so tired I could cry, but there’s no time for self-pity. I take some deep breaths and harden my resolve. I have to trust there are enough fumes in my tank to get me through to the end of the year. What I’m lacking in sleep, I make up for in adrenaline and caffeine. I’m behaving a bit frenetically. And although I make copious lists of what I need to accomplish each day, I inevitably misplace the list or leave it at home and find myself in the middle of a grocery aisle wondering if I’m there to buy eggs or toilet paper. I usually give up and buy both, which explains why we’re eating so many omelets lately and my bathroom closet looks like an aisle at Costco.
It’s getting harder and harder to keep up. I haven’t felt this much pressure to look and act a certain way since high school. At least, as an adolescent, I had personal interaction with the sources of my peer pressure. It’s so different to allow someone I’ve never met to guide my daily choices. I am also feeling quite isolated now as the clique I’m striving to join is entirely virtual. It’s a really lonely feeling.
Jim admits he is ready for the year to end. He hasn’t complained very often, but in recent days he’s been talking about how much he is looking forward to 2009, when he’ll see more of me. That makes me feel really lucky as I’ve worried I might have alienated him this year. We seem to pass like ships in the night. And when we are home at the same time, I am usually worrying about unfinished projects, and things I should fix about myself or our apartment. Have I made my rooms “personal” enough? Would my new filing system pass Oprah’s inspection? Would she approve of the tray I’ve chosen to fulfill her assignment to make my entryway table neater and more efficient? In addition to his discomfort from living under a microscope, I imagine it must also hurt Jim to know his opinions this year have taken a backseat to Oprah’s. He might think I’m super cute in a T-shirt with a funny saying like NOSTALGIA WAS BETTER IN THE OLD DAYS. But it doesn’t matter. If Oprah doesn’t approve, I won’t wear it. I totally understand the communications I’ve received from harried husbands and boyfriends of Oprah’s biggest fans. It must be a bit emasculating to have your partner constantly striving to emulate celebrities, trusting Winfrey’s opinions over your own.
I’m even confused when it comes to the line between my point of view and Oprah’s. In the beginning, there was a distinction between Oprah’s priorities and my own. I would follow her suggestions to the letter but didn’t feel entirely comfortable completing the tasks. In fact, I frequently felt awkward. Yet, a couple months ago, I remember looking down at the leopard-print flats on my feet. They were once the bane of my existence, but now, I have to admit, they’ve grown on me. When I initially wore the clothing she promoted, decorated as she wished, or read the books she pushed, I didn’t feel at home. Now I do. I can’t decide if I became accustomed to Oprah’s world, or if my entire aesthetic has truly c
hanged. I look at myself in the mirror, admiring the perfectly arched brows I’ve groomed and plucked in accordance to the directions on Oprah.com. Nice.
“Are you about ready to roll?” Jim peeks into the room as he buttons his cuffs. We’re already a bit late and still need to run a couple of errands before heading to a holiday party.
“One sec,” I tell him, feathering together my three shades of lipstick. “How do I look?” I spin around, puckering, so he can check me out.
“Fine. I mean, good.” He looks at the concern on my face. “I mean, isn’t that what you wore the last time we went out? I said you looked good then.”
“It’s a multipurpose black dress.” I try not to snap. “I can dress it up or down.” He looks dubious. “I’m wearing totally different accessories.”
He nods. And then, as if prodded with a stick, “You look awesome.”
Whatever.
Speaking of wardrobe, just over a month ago, Oprah mentioned why she won’t wear certain clothing: “I never go without sleeves because I have big, fat arms.” She wears tight-sleeved outfits frequently, and I never once thought of her as having chunky limbs. Since she shared her own clothing rule with us, I’ve become concerned about my own choices. I examine myself in the full-length mirror, wondering about my body. I should probably be more careful about my belly. I’ll never be accused of having abs of steel and think my midsection might be too big for the narrow belt I was planning to wear. There’s no time to research my dilemma on Oprah.com. I tear off my dress and opt for one of the forgiving tunic tops and the dark-wash jeans Winfrey has encouraged us to have in our closets.
I grab my purse, and as Jim locks up the apartment, I slink down the front steps, self-conscious.
Oprah’s weight is back in the news and she’s chosen to put it there. She’s clearly not as svelte this season as she’s been in the past couple years, but I don’t care how much she weighs. For me, the main issue is that she appears distracted when she’s not happy with herself physically. While it doesn’t matter to me what size she is, I enjoy her show so much more when she brings her A game.
With Oprah’s blessing, her best friend, Gayle, has gone on a morning talk show to discuss Winfrey’s body. Now that is an amazing friendship and a clear sign of trust. I wonder if there’s anyone in my life I might set free in the world of morning television to discuss my weight. I guess a lot would depend on if morning television interviews still occur when hell freezes over. Winfrey’s weight gain is being used to promote the new season of Oprah. Her struggle is a major marketing tool, utilized with abandon to attract an audience. I don’t mean to belittle her trouble. It’s a very real, very deadly roller coaster she’s on with her health, but her show has been able to capitalize on it.
I wonder if this is why many people seem to feel her body is open to public criticism. Not only does Oprah talk about it all the time, but she discusses it in a setting frequently used for entertainment. Oprah’s weight is like a character in a soap opera we’ve all been watching for decades. It’s got a split personality, and we’re drawn in to find out if it’s playing the villain this season or the hero. Ads for next year’s shows imply her weight will once again be starring in a major role. I feel sad and exhausted for Oprah. I hope she makes peace with her body soon and wish she would do so privately.
I have been reading endless statistics about women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies. Like many of you, I’ve seen poll results online and in magazines showing that the majority of us are not entirely at ease with our weight. We’re unhappy with our physical appearance, and we compare other women’s bodies to our own. These statistics are no surprise to me. My own social circle reflects this. I don’t think I’ve had a single friend, ever, who has not mentioned her body in a disparaging way at least once. Oprah, the televised version of our collective best friend, talks to us in the same way we talk to each other. It’s such comfortable patter, like white noise, except far more damaging to our self-esteem. I think it’s important to stop enabling each other to speak in this manner about ourselves. Including Winfrey. While she can be such a positive role model for women, she’s also a perpetuator of this kind of talk. But, to be honest, I fall into the same trap.
In advertisements for shows beginning in January, Oprah states that she’s ready to tackle her own behavior. Short of donning an O sweater and grabbing a pair of pom-poms, I’m really pulling for her. However, as I watch promotions for the Best Life Week coming up in January, I feel a little let down. It is implied these shows will be better than last year’s. I’ve worked in marketing, I know that it’s a necessity to utilize this language. “Bigger!” “Faster!” “More absorbent than ever!” Still, I can’t help but feel like the year I’ve just spent Living Oprah was a waste if I only got the JV self-help guidance. I want the varsity team.
I’m so torn by this. I’ve been planning to take a break from watching the show in 2009. I’m desperate for some time off. And yet how can I turn my back on Best Life Week in January? I might miss something groundbreaking and life altering. I am hit with the memory of an old Oprah about compulsive gamblers. A gambler with an addiction to playing the slots will stay at the same machine with the obsessive hope that any moment she might hit triple sevens. She won’t walk away because she fears that the next person to sit down will hit it big. I feel the same way. Even though I know watching the same television program every single day can’t be too healthy, I don’t want to turn away. What if the episode I miss is the Best Life jackpot? Sure, I’m dubious, but I still have a glimmer of hope. It feels like a pretty major gamble to turn away from the TV now.
“Holy crap,” Jim says, shaking his head. “You’re totally addicted.”
“I’m totally not.” I shrug it off, faking nonchalance. “I can stop anytime I want.” That sounds so pathetic in my own head, I can’t believe I said it.
Jim just sighs. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. Maybe he’s asthmatic.
December 16, 2008
I’m in Jefferson’s car, heading to the United Center to see Céline Dion live in concert. I’m only an amateur meteorologist, but I’m pretty sure Chicago is in the midst of a blizzard. There are cars littered on the side of the highway, and the local news has warned everyone to stay safe and warm in their own homes tonight. Oh, how I wish this was possible for a myriad of reasons. Reason one: I’m heading to the United Center to see Céline Dion live in concert. Reason two: It’s usually a 30-minute drive to the stadium, but we’ve been in the car over an hour and we’re only halfway there. Reason three: Jefferson appears to regret his decision to accompany me tonight. He keeps saying, “We could turn around anytime you want. It’s up to you.”
I think I’m coming down with a cold.
Jefferson and I are pretty sure we know only one Céline song, the one from Titanic that played incessantly from 1997 to 2001. I was certain more people knew its lyrics than the national anthem. We try to come up with other torchy-sounding ballads that we might attribute to tonight’s headliner, but we draw a total blank.
After we finally arrive and pay for parking, we trudge through the snow to the front door. Everyone else looks happy to be there, so we try to whip up some enthusiasm. I’ve never been to a concert this big, and I allow myself to be swept up by the energy of the crowd. Our seats, the cheapest I was able to procure, are about 35 miles from the stage and just steps away from an exit. These are the best seats in the house, we decide. This lightens our mood even further. The opening act, a comedian, is doing his shtick onstage. This guy is awful, but the folks around us are eating it up. I study them. Who are these people who are laughing at a Robert De Niro Taxi Driver impersonation (“You talkin’ to me?”) like it’s the first time they’ve heard such genius originality? There are lots of women dressed to the nines who can’t sit still in their seats, they are so excited. Accompanying them are their mostly male partners who obsessively check the time. Even though I’m Caucasian, I don’t think I’ve ever been around so many white pe
ople in my life. It’s creepy.
I look at my cell phone. It’s about an hour later than the show was supposed to begin, but we haven’t seen any indication that the concert is starting anytime soon. There are clearly tons of empty seats in the United Center. I bet the weather is keeping people home. Either that or a rampant outbreak of good taste has struck the Chicagoland area. The “comedian” is doing some sort of medley of impressions now: Pacino, Nicholson, Bill Clinton, and an unidentifiable voice that sounds like the love child of Ronald Reagan and Cher.
There is a group of women behind me who aren’t paying the least bit of attention to the opening act. They are all chattering about Charice, a teenage singer from the Philippines who is Oprah’s favored child prodigy of the year. Oprah’s had the girl on the show several times to perform, and Céline has invited her to sing at Madison Square Garden. The women behind me love Charice. They love Céline. They love Oprah. They are gushing so much, I feel their collective adoration pressing against the back of my neck. I want to turn around and join the conversation, but Jefferson is elbowing me in the ribs.
“Look!” He’s thrilled because he thinks he’s spotted a black man in the crowd. He points: front row, aisle seat.
We are briefly excited by the diversity.
And the lights go down.
I spend the next couple hours entirely speechless. Jefferson and I are amazed. It turns out we don’t know only one Céline song, we know all of them. Without ever intentionally sitting down and listening to an album, we’ve absorbed her music via the pop culture fabric that blankets our everyday lives. I’ve been listening to her songs for years without even knowing it. They definitely all sound similar to each other, but distinct at the same time, written utilizing some mysterious formula to a wildly successful pop ballad. Every single one has a hook that sinks into my subconscious and won’t let go.