Living Oprah

by Robyn Okrant

  Much of this evening reminds me of Oprah. She, too, is so rooted in our daily lives, many of us don’t even realize it. All through the year, I’ve heard from people who insist they never, ever watch Oprah, and yet they can quote her, they know about her girls’ school in Africa, her campaign effort for Barack Obama. They know the names of her experts and their specialities, they recognize her best friend, Gayle, and of course, everyone knows Steadman. I witness Oprah’s name spoken daily, reverently and irreverently on TV, in movies, in books, on products. Oprah Winfrey isn’t just a name, it’s a part of everyday speech used to describe qualities that range from wealth, philanthropy, megalomania, power, to generosity, materialism, strength, and the American dream. Like that song from Titanic that Jefferson and I can’t stop singing on our drive home, Oprah’s got a hook. But unlike Titanic, she has gotten more popular over time. She is not interchangeable, replaceable, or replicable. Not even tonight’s impressionist attempted that feat.

  I’m seeing a lot of Oprah-suggested movies. They’re not all exceptionally good, either. Did she really sit through all of these and love them? Or was Oprah simply promoting a movie star guest’s new project out of professional courtesy or obligation. These aren’t films I’d normally select to view, but Winfrey’s chosen my holiday season entertainment. Jim has been so sweet to accompany me to most of them. He studied film in college and would probably prefer something dark and existential to this marathon of animated kids’ movies, so-called chick flicks, and two-hour dramedies about misbehaving dogs. One day we watch three movies in a row, and when we try to evaluate what we’ve seen, one plot runs into another and we give up.

  My poor brain is overtaxed and overextended. I’m forgetting things left and right, which is unlike me. I actually stood my friend Nicky up for lunch. I felt horrible, and even more so because she was so understanding and sympathetic. My time feels so precious these days that I am mortified I’ve devalued someone else’s. I’m usually early for everything and am a natural planner. That’s all gone out the window. I don’t know what end is up. If my home was truly a physical manifestation of my emotional and spiritual life, as it’s been suggested on Oprah, I’d be living in a carnival fun house. Instead, my paper files are neat and organized, but my mind is muddled. I need a tiny Peter Walsh to be injected into my bloodstream, as in that classic sci-fi movie Fantastic Voyage. He needs to steer his fleet of itty-bitty VW Beetles into my head where his miniaturized crew can declutter my brain à la Oprah’s Clean Up Your Messy House Tour.

  Okay. I’m losing it.

  I’ve been urged by Oprah to make a pumpkin chiffon pie recipe created by her friend Cristina Ferrare. It will be my dessert contribution to Christmas dinner at my in-laws’ home. For a Jew married to a non-Jew, this holiday can be awkward for me. I don’t have any Christmas traditions I can share, beyond the stereotypical Jewish December 25, Chinese food and a movie. I’m relieved Oprah’s presented me with something I can make for the family.

  I’m worried because the dessert recipe calls for uncooked eggs. With all the horrible stories in the news about salmonella outbreaks and other foodborne illnesses, I’m a bit concerned I might wipe out my husband’s entire family with one tasty treat. Merry Christmas! I’m not going to lie — I’m relieved Oprah’s told me only to make the pie, not eat it. So far, so good, though. Everyone’s taken a few bites, and I haven’t had to call poison control yet or use my CPR training. Nobody’s falling over themselves with excitement, either. They tell me they think it’s okay.

  “It’s not as firm as I thought it would be,” says my mother-in-law.

  “My favorite part is the crust,” says my father-in-law, with a mouthful of pie.

  The crust, incidentally, is the only store-bought part of the dish.

  Jim and I have allowed Oprah to choose the gifts we’ll be giving out this year. We’re a bit broke and have decided to forgo holiday presents for each other, but the big unwrapping fest on Christmas morning is his family’s tradition. I’ve gleaned some ideas from Oprah’s show and have also done research on the website. One of the gifts she told us to give is her newest Book Club pick, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. We are to write an inscription in it to the recipient as well as the recipient’s dog. My sister-in-law, Linh, is a big reader and owner of a big dog, so she’ll be opening that big book on Christmas morning. There was also a downloadable medley of free holiday music that Oprah’s offered us for a limited time. I’ve burned a CD for Linh, but it turns out she already saw that freebie and made a disc of her own. I guess I’m not the only one who watches Oprah, then?

  I decide to bake most of our gifts this year, based on holiday recipes from Oprah’s website. In order to tickle everyone’s taste buds but still give them something substantial, I choose an array of goodies to be presented in adorable stacked tins. While I began the process with the intention of fiscal and time restraint, it quickly snowballs into an exercise in excess, and we have to pull out the old credit card to buy several ingredients. Over the course of three days, I spend hours shopping, cooking, wrapping, and thinking about the rest of my to-do list the whole time. I have one week until the end of the year and miles to go before I sleep.

  When I’m done, my kitchen looks like Christmas exploded, but I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I think everything looks terrific, and I can’t wait for everyone to open their treats. I made three sets of the following:

  Apricot, Ginger, and Walnut Tea Bread (two loaves for each family)

  Dark Chocolate Bark with Pistachios, Sweetened Dried Cherries, and Pumpkin Seeds (I made enough for my husband to share with his coworkers. I’m very popular in his office now.)

  Deceptively Delicious Brownies (Yup, I went back to Jessica Seinfeld. These treats hide carrot and spinach purée within their chocolaty goodness!)

  Spiced Nuts (I thought the sweetness of everything else needed some balance.)

  I hope I’ve presented them with something for everyone to enjoy. I’m holding my breath that they’ll like it all and am hungry for feedback. This is odd. Where did the comfortable lack of accountability go? For months, I felt very little pressure because all my choices were made by Oprah, not me. But now I’m desperate for appreciation and acceptance of my gift. I am attempting to behave otherwise, because I want people to be honest with me about their reaction to the food, rather than concerned about hurting my feelings if they don’t like their treats.

  I watch my father-in-law feed something I’ve made to his dog, and I feel a little stab of pain. I feel ownership of these presents. What on earth? Clearly, this has all sunk in deeper than I had planned or expected. I am afraid that the distinction between me and performing Living Oprah has been erased. I never thought I would be susceptible to the absorption of this lifestyle. I wish I had been wearing an emotional hazmat suit the entire time to protect myself.

  December 26, 2008

  I might be bit of an emotional wreck, but my body is another story. The health advice I’ve received this year from Oprah has been plentiful. She’s covered the bases, from what goes into my mouth to what should come out the other end. And I’ve got to say, I feel pretty good. Before the year began, I was already a regular exerciser, but I used my Best Life Challenge contract to keep me active, even when I wanted to play couch potato. Plus it encouraged me to test myself in new ways, to push myself further. It was empowering.

  I completed my 21-day vegan cleanse, which did get me out of some eating ruts, nudging me toward the direction of more variety. Expanding my food options has equated to a more nutritionally well-rounded diet and definitely resulted in an increased enjoyment of my meals. And of course, every bite was savored. It was impractical and ridiculous at times, but more often than not, it was relaxing to eat in this manner. As a bonus, I felt satisfied at the end of each meal.

  To assess my health toward the beginning of the year, I took the RealAge test on February 21. The RealAge program was developed by Dr. Oz and his partner, Dr. Michael Roize
n. While Oz is a frequent guest on Oprah’s stage, Roizen is usually seen in the front row of the audience, but rarely addressed. There’s no mistaking who’s Simon and who’s Garfunkel in that relationship. When I first took the online exam, I found out I had a RealAge of 29.5. I was proud that a computerized quiz diagnosed me as spry. The results were followed up with suggestions about how I could pump some more youth and vitality into my cells. There were supplements to take, activity levels to achieve, and relationships on which to focus. I set a goal for myself to drop to a RealAge of 25 by the end of the year.

  So now it’s the night before my 36th birthday. As I repeat the Real-Age test, ten months after the first time, I can celebrate that I followed all the health guidance offered to me this year. However, as I fill in the blanks, I realize I have had one major weakness: stress. I improved many of my lifestyle choices. I’ve taken my fish oil pills and my vitamin D religiously. I’ve exercised, eaten right, meditated. But due to the pressure of the project and many of Oprah’s assignments, my level of stress shot through the roof and my sleep got worse. I think this canceled out many of the positive changes I made.

  When my results come in, it turns out I have a RealAge of 29.6. While it’s not the outcome I was hoping for, I guess aging only 0.1 years over the course of ten months isn’t too bad. At this rate, I’ll be 30 by the time I turn 40. I’d like to see how Jim handles that candle situation.

  At work, I tell a friend about these results. She knows how much work I’ve put into these assignments and jokingly mentions that my health has been a part-time job this year. She’s right, it’s been incredibly time-consuming, but I decide there’s nothing wrong with making my health a priority. I am happier for it. I feel better. It might not be the way most Americans live their lives, but I don’t think it’s a bad idea to reconsider our priorities. I certainly feel more powerful for it.

  The real hero of the year is my VCR. Poor little antiquated machine has been busting its sweet little motherboard to stick to my staunch schedule of recording Oprah and Oprah Winfrey–related shows. And today, on December 29, that brave little soldier gave its life for my project. No amount of shaking, tapping, or incessantly pushing the power button will resuscitate it. I’ve tried. Jim’s tried. I only hope its next life is easier than this one. Rest in peace, Sony VHS Recorder, model #SLV-N77. You will be missed, good friend.

  December 31, 2008

  The credits are rolling on the last episode of Oprah for the year. Jim asks how I feel, but I can’t tell quite yet. It’s all a bit anticlimactic as I still have a few more items on my to-do list before the clock strikes midnight. I have watched 262 hours of Oprah over the course of the leap year. Even though this piece of the project is complete, I can’t call 262 hours of television viewing a victory, any more than I call playing Wii a workout.

  I jump up from the couch. No time to waste as there’s still plenty to do. I have to get one more interesting, fabulous chair to put in my living room. This is a Nate Berkus piece of advice backed up by Oprah from months ago. While I’ve been bargain hunting quite a bit, right now I just want this item off my list as soon as humanly possible. Jim has volunteered to go pick up the seating I chose online from a reasonably priced retail franchise. Great. I’m lucky he’s so amenable because I need to go pick up some pants I’ve had tailored (an Oprah must!) and dye my hair one last time with the O-recommended Perfect 10 hair color product. I’m going to end the year looking as young and fresh as Oprah’s magazine advises.

  Oprah’s told us to “stock your shelves” with beans, so I’ve purchased enough cans to sink a small ship. Not only are they healthy, but she says they’re a thrifty choice as well. She’s been concerned about how the economy is affecting us and has been throwing out ideas on how to keep costs to a minimum. The legumes are still in grocery bags, sprawled on the kitchen counter. I make a mental note to stack them in my cabinets later tonight while hair dye is permeating my stubborn grays.

  It’s an odd day because there’s a lot of running into and out of the apartment, and it’s becoming farcical to fulfill Oprah’s suggestion to “get a lift” every time I walk in the front door. Luckily, I have a new reason to feel happy during my latest entrance: a brand-new chair stands, resplendent, in its place in the living room. Jim stands just as proudly next to it. He tells me he wrestled it home on the city bus, which I find adorable, and I’m feeling so grateful for him right now. There’s no time to gush, however. Before we have a moment to sit in the new chair, we’re heading to make a donation to Chicago Books to Women in Prison. Oprah told us to organize a philanthropic project with our friends and neighbors. As books and reading are very special to me, I decided to make them the focus of my Big Give. I’ve collected paperbacks from friends and family, and we’re about to drop them off at the not-for-profit’s headquarters. Carrying bags bursting with books, we hustle to the train. It feels fabulous to be of service. Jim and I are thrilled we can help this terrific organization and agree to keep it up even when Oprah doesn’t enforce our philanthropy.

  On our way home, Jim insists we have time to stop for a late lunch, even though I’m buzzing to knock off the last couple items for the year. He takes me to Café Selmarie for sweet potato fries, and although I want to rush home, I savor every morsel. About six feet away from us, there is a table of people — we’re guessing parents with their adult children and spouses — who keep pointing at me and talking about my project at full volume. They are discussing how they’ve seen me on TV, that I live in the neighborhood and teach yoga nearby. One woman starts regaling the others with items she’s read on my blog. She’s talking about me as if I’m not even in the room. I’m not exaggerating: She is so close I could hit her with my sourdough roll. At one point, the man I’m guessing is her father exclaims, “That’s just crazy! She’s crazy.”

  I begin to giggle. Jim asks me if I want to change seats so my back is to the group. Although I consider the offer, I feel it would appear rude, so I turn him down. We wonder if maybe we should stop coming here, but it’s our neighborhood place. We have come here for years and have so many fond memories of the café and its food, but still, I don’t want to be the latter half of “dinner and a show” whenever we drop in. While I’m slowly, agonizingly, chewing my last bite of food, fighting the urge to run back home with a bag over my head, I am comforted by the thought that this, too, shall pass. The year ends in less than nine hours, after all.

  Make sure tailored pants fit like a glove: Check!

  Exercise: Check!

  Hang final pieces of decor on walls: Check!

  Read A Course in Miracles at Oprah.com: Check!

  Perform breast self-exam: Check!

  Be nice: Check!

  It’s a few minutes until midnight. Every single item has been crossed off my list to the very best of my ability, but I can’t believe it. I’ve pored over my notes, worried that I might have forgotten something. Jim and I have been running around for so much of the day, we look like we’ve just returned from the gym, all sweaty and stale-looking. We thought we’d have time to stop in at a couple of our friends’ New Year’s Eve parties, but we’re tired and don’t want to budge. We are so happy to be at home, cozied up on our couch, fondly looking at our new chair. (We can’t sit on it yet as we’ve wrapped it, mummy-style, in double-stick tape to train the cats not to use it as a scratching post. They will be repelled by the texture of the adhesive, say several pet-advice websites.) Our annual New Year’s Day party is canceled tomorrow. I’m so disappointed. We just didn’t have enough time, energy, or resources to pull it together.

  We have the TV turned on so we can watch the ball drop, but the sound is off. We need some peace and quiet. As the countdown begins, I grab Jim’s hand and snuggle up closer to him. We’re both holding our breath. When the clock strikes midnight, we kiss. This lip-lock is not mandated by Oprah, and it feels like a breath of fresh air. I burst into a couple little sobs and then some embarrassed laughter.

  “Congratulations,�
�� he says, wrapping his arms around me.

  I thought I’d be over the moon at this moment, ready to celebrate. Instead, I feel very mellow, in disbelief that I made it. I wish I could say something profound and extraordinary, but can’t stop repeating a less-than-momentous, “Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap.” I keep waiting for a switch to turn off in my mind so I can immediately separate myself from the project and begin to dissect and quantify it. No such luck. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I decide I don’t have to figure everything out today and can let it go until tomorrow.

  As we settle into bed for the night, Jim asks, “Are we sleeping in tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” I smile.

  He turns out the light and we sink under the blankets. In under a minute, I hear his breath change as he eases into sleep.

  Wait.

  “Jim?”

  “Hm?”

  I give him a little shake. “Jim?”

  “What is it?” he asks, wrapping himself around me, avoiding my freezing feet.

  “Actually, can you set the alarm for eight forty-five? I think I should get up and watch the show tomorrow.”

  At first Jim is very still, and it’s so dark in the room I can’t make out his face. Then I feel him sit up in bed. The numbers on the clock glow brighter for a moment while he sets the alarm.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  He burrows back under the covers and lets out a sigh.

  Photo © Jim Stevens

  Best Life Challenge complete. Look at those muscles!

  Photo © Jim Stevens

  My sister-in-law Linh opens her literary gift.

  Photo © Jim Stevens

  Happy New Year!

  Photo © Jim Stevens

  Do I really look so bad without makeup? Wait. Don’t answer that.