by Robyn Okrant
In the planning stages of Living Oprah, if you can call the last 17 days of December 2007 “planning stages,” I thought I’d apply for grants and sponsorship to support my project financially. My husband and I weren’t exactly rolling in dough, and we had to be careful and wise with our budget. He’s an artisan who works for a tile manufacturer and I am a yoga teacher, and during the first half of 2008, I’d also be working on my graduate thesis at a very pricey art school.
So patronage seemed like the right way to go. Did I mention how expensive art school is? It costs a fortune to hone one’s craft and earn a degree in a vocation almost guaranteed to provide a life of barely making ends meet, frequently doubting one’s career choice, and taking a day job simply because it offers health insurance. I know many of you folks in the arts can relate. And if you aren’t in the field, please tip your barista well.
Sponsorship and advertising for a Web-based project inevitably require banner ads and wacky animated links. I know they are a necessary evil on some sites, as click-thru advertising generates revenue, and while I could have used the money, I really didn’t want the distraction. Also, I thought advertisers would have an impact on my project. What if a sponsor wanted to have some say in the content of my site? I couldn’t allow that. Most important, since I would be attempting to determine how Oprah’s advertisers impact her message to us, it seemed mighty hypocritical for me to use them.
I came to the conclusion that it would be too easy to have financial help. One of the reasons I decided to spend a whole year Living Oprah was to see if it’s remotely feasible to live entirely as a celebrity guru says the average Jane should. To draw the most honest conclusion about whether the benefits outweighed the costs, I had to use my own means. I was interested (and a little scared) to see what psychological impact this would have on me, and felt I would be deviating from my project’s intent if I avoided its financial demands.
With the decision made to fund this project on my own, I clarified exactly how I’d follow Oprah’s advice for the year. I decided to turn to the Big Three: The Oprah Winfrey Show, O, The Oprah Magazine, and Oprah.com. If Oprah gave a directive of any kind through one of these outlets, I’d follow it. If one of Oprah’s guests gave a piece of advice on her show, I’d act upon it only if Oprah personally backed it up. Additionally, if Oprah wrote a suggestion to us in her “Here We Go!” letter or her “What I Know for Sure” column in O magazine, I would take heed. In fact, if she made a suggestion anywhere in the public eye or ear, I latched on. I committed to taking all of her suggestions quite literally and would leave as little to interpretation as possible.
I would use Oprah.com in a slightly different manner. As it contains all Oprah-approved material, I’d refer to it as my encyclopedia for living. If I planned an event, desired advice on fashion, required remedies for stress, or even if I needed a way to ease strife in my marriage, I’d search Oprah’s website for solutions and guidance.
Armed with my rules, my blog, and my remote control, I was ready to roll. The year 2007 was coming to a close. I bade a fond farewell to free will and embraced Living Oprah with open arms.
Back to my New Year’s Day party (fade out the flashback music, bring the lights up to full).…
I’ve detailed the whole Living Oprah project to my guests and am witnessing a moment that harkens back to the old opening of the Richard Dawson version of Family Feud. My friends are frozen in a vignette: mouths full of Mushroom, Goat Cheese, and Caramelized-Shallot Pizza, looking alternatively distraught, anxious, and uncomfortable. Luckily for me, they could all win awards for their sense of humor, and the room soon erupts into laughter. But the hilarity too soon devolves into cautious giggles. They’re worried about me. Will I have enough money to make all the purchases Oprah asks of her viewers? Will my marriage last? Jim busies himself with refilling people’s drinks so he doesn’t have to answer any questions that start with, “Jim, how do you feel about…”
My friends voice concern over whether there are enough hours in the day to live under Oprah’s rule.
“That’s one of the reasons I am doing this project,” I tell them. “If it runs me ragged, then so be it.”
There are many women in my life who look up to Oprah and feel inadequate in comparison to her. But why should we compare our lifestyles to that of one of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the public eye? I remember an episode of Oprah about germs and cleanliness. The TV hostess mentioned she prefers her bedsheets changed every other day. At that point in my life, I was digging around in the cushions of my sofa for enough quarters to do my laundry. I vividly remember wondering, while watching that show back in 2004, if Oprah could empathize with my priorities.
It’s clear to me that she very much wants to share with her audience what she’s learned over the years. She offers herself as a guide, a teacher, a role model. But is Oprah’s ideal possible for women who don’t have domestic help, who have families to manage, and who can barely make ends meet? Her show is filled with “musts” and “gottas” and “can’t live withouts.” These are incredibly strong words coming from such an influential media figure. Let’s face it, when Oprah says jump, millions of people — mainly women — ask, “How high?”
My friend Joe looks concerned for me and offers his help. I’ve worked with him for years creating ensemble-based theater projects, and he knows how much I thrive on collaboration. I thank him but tell him I want to handle this one alone. “So many women around the world allow Oprah to dictate what we should read, watch, listen to, how we should cook, exercise, organize, and how we should vote. I want to find out if Living Oprah is actually the road to happiness and fulfillment. Besides,” I tell him, “it’s something I need to try on my own or else it’ll feel like cheating.”
Oprah is admirable. I find her career path from rags to riches awe-inspiring and can understand why many want to be just like her or at least learn how to put her secrets to success to work in their own lives. In the earlier years of her syndicated television program, women were able to relate to her struggles, her excitement at meeting celebrities, and her amazement at coming into contact with those living on society’s fringe. We imagine that she can relate to us and we to her. However, with her overwhelmingly privileged lifestyle, can she still be the voice of the everywoman? Surely she can sympathize, but can she still speak for us? Well, she does. And we listen. We fall in love with her decorator, her doctor, her chef. Oprah defines how high we set the bar for ourselves, and based on her suggestions, we challenge ourselves to meet tough expectations.
It’s vitally important for women to question the sources of influence and persuasion in our lives. We are inundated with get rich/get thin/get married suggestions every time we turn on the TV or walk by the magazine rack. And sadly, we tend to judge ourselves against seemingly impossible standards. I want to get to the bottom of why this cycle exists and find out how I’m complicit in it. I spend a lot of time worrying and bellyaching about it, but that’s just a waste of time and energy. I want to better understand myself, other women, the self-help entertainment industry, and Oprah Winfrey.
My friends munch thoughtfully on their blueberry bars and I cringe to see Joe begin to inspect the layers of his.
One friend pipes up, “If this project kills you, can I have your kitten?” (Note to self: Adjust guest list for next year’s party.)
We all laugh, turn the subject away from Oprah, and begin to debate which film should kick off this year’s movie marathon. It dawns on me that I should have Netflixed The Color Purple.
Joe places his half-eaten bar on the edge of his plate, turns to me, and repeats quietly, “Seriously, if you need any help on this, let me know.”
I can’t understand why everyone is so anxious.
Jim puts his hand on my knee reassuringly.
“This is gonna be a piece of cake,” I whisper to him. But my friends have me wondering if it’ll be less like angel food cake and more like Oprah’s 400-pound 50th birthday cake.
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It’s about five minutes until the start of the first Oprah show of 2008. I know it’s going to be a rerun, but still, I sit bolt upright on my couch with my laptop, notebook, pens, pencils, highlighters, remote controls, and a nutritious snack. I could be mistaken for the suck-up student on the first day of school who sprints into the classroom, breathless, in order to sit in the front row and impress the teacher. Actually, if memory serves, that is what I did in high school. I can’t imagine why I wasn’t very popular.
My husband, rushing to leave for work, hurries back and forth in front of the TV. He keeps blocking my view and it’s driving me crazy, so I’m forced to pull out that oldie but goody: “You make a better door than a window.” He rolls his eyes at me and I remind him I’m not sitting around enjoying morning talk shows while he heads out to bring home the bacon, I’m doing research.
“This is going to be a long year,” he grumbles but smiles sweetly before kissing me on the head and flying out the door.
I sigh out all my tension. Alone at last. Just me, the television set, and Oprah Winfrey.
Like I said, today’s episode will be a rerun, as will the next couple of weeks’ shows. No matter. If the show is on, I’ll be watching, taking notes, and following directions. Just because an episode has had a previous airing doesn’t mean I’m off the hook. It’s possible that I’m a glutton for punishment. As I watch the show, I want to be slammed with Oprah’s assignments, as if being swamped will prove my commitment to the experiment. And yet the thought of being bombarded by a steady stream of Oprah’s directives produces a stubborn streak in me.
As if she senses my rebellion, I receive my first bit of advice from Winfrey: “You have to get things tailored. This whole idea that you can buy things off the rack… and they’re supposed to fit you perfectly… It’s ridiculous.”
I guess I’m ridiculous. I can count on two fingers the number of times I’ve had clothing tailored in the past. My wardrobe of choice is generally low-key and low maintenance. Whether I’m teaching, going to the supermarket, or meeting a friend for dinner, I can usually be found leaving my front door in black yoga pants and cotton tank top, Jim lint-brushing cat hair off my butt. I scribble “tailor clothes” on my to-do list and grin broadly at the first assignment at the top of my otherwise blank legal pad.
It is quite easy to wish for more to do in the first days of January. School isn’t yet in session and I have a lot of free time on my hands. This is unusual. I tend to fill up every moment of my day with activity and deadlines until, inevitably, I regret it. I always swear that if I can make it through my projects without keeling over, I’ll never overextend myself again. Even when I have downtime, I pack it tight with activity. If I were to draw a picture of what I look like on a day off, the image would depict me neatening up my living room, eating lunch, and watching old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I would be moving back and forth between two knitting projects, planning my next yoga class, hitting refresh on my laptop to see if new e-mail arrived, all the while returning phone calls to friends and paging through a fitness magazine. This is how I’d define a relaxing afternoon. Doing everything I enjoy in life. All at once.
Maybe Oprah has some insights to share on the topic of self-care, and I might actually find some peace this year. I’m 35 now, and for the past five years or so, my chronic Superwoman syndrome has teetered dangerously close to becoming a key ingredient in a recipe for emotional disaster. But — and this is a big but — multitasking to the point that I can barely see straight has served me well, and it’s hard to let go of a quality that’s helped me out in so many ways. For instance, anyone who works in non-Equity Chicago theater knows when you sign on to be part of a production, you’re inevitably expected to help build the set, hang posters up around town, assist with marketing, and if you’re not required to be onstage, you’ll probably end up working the box office at some point. This all takes place in the hours you’re not in rehearsal or working your 40-hour-a-week day job. I’ve been scraping by as a writer, director, and actor in this environment for the past 15 years and as a result have turned into a human version of a Swiss Army knife. I fear if I ever lose my usefulness, I’ll be replaced by a newer, sharper model.
I do trust in my ability to get a job done, and in the safety of my living room I feel ready to take on the world. I’ve read my January copy of O from cover to cover and already completed my first assignments from Oprah:
“Quick, name five terrific things about yourself!” (I’m funny, I’m loyal, I’m a good daughter, wife, and friend, I can laugh at myself, I’m willing to take risks.)
“Give yourself a time-out. Get into bed with a good book, the Sunday paper, or your favorite magazine… unplug the phone, and instruct, bribe, beg, command your family to grant you a few blissful minutes of rest…” (I spend an hour in bed reading the paper, wondering when I can get up and make good use of my time.)
“… reinvigorate your appearance with some great advice on how not to look old…” (I learn that dressing too young for my age makes me look older and, as suggested, I pack up my graphic T-shirts and cargo pants and put them in the back of my closet for the year.)
“… rethink your eating habits with some absolutely delicious and utterly original meals…” (The Smoky Halibut Paella with Brown Basmati Rice looks yummy but time-consuming.)
“… just plain enjoy my interview with the dazzling Denzel Washington.” (Done. With pleasure.)
The glossy pages of O reflected a lifestyle quite different from my own. As I paged through the lovely clothing, the jewelry, the adorable bric-a-brac, I felt like I was visiting a natural history museum and viewing a diorama of how the other half lives. I am ashamed to say I found myself wishing I could own a lot of this stuff (especially the most gorgeous $275 bathrobe I’ve ever seen and probably never will in reality). I had an honest to goodness emotional response to these images. Paging through the magazine’s editorial pages and advertisements, in my mind’s eye I chose the items I would buy if I could afford them. And because I am very generous in my imagination, I also thought about what I’d purchase for my mom (a gorgeous cashmere scarf), my sister, Elisabeth (cocktail rings for every finger), my girlfriends (super cute purses). As fun as it was to visit fantasyland in the moment, afterward, the excursion made me feel lacking. It made me very aware of what I can’t have — what I didn’t really think I even wanted before I saw those images. And instead of brushing it off easily, I actually felt bad. The magazine made these items look so much fun to own. But what fun is it to be reminded that I am not one of the people who gets to wear the $178 pair of miracle jeans that O’s fashion team celebrates for making every woman appear slim and sleek?
I felt so removed from the world I saw in these glossy images that I expected to be held at arm’s length by the articles, as well. I was quite relieved when I read them, however. I had a preconceived notion that they would be fluffy or perhaps aimed at a very different demographic than my own. But, for the most part, I was wrong. Reading the magazine this year might prove enjoyable and, hopefully, constructive. While the material items chosen to grace the pages of the magazine were reminders that I didn’t — or couldn’t — belong to this club of women, the writing was far more inclusive and encompassing. I got sucked into self-help articles by Martha Beck and Suzan Colón and tell-it-like-it-is financial advice by Suze Orman. Just as Oprah’s audience is mainly female, so are most of the contributors to the magazine. I was impressed by Oprah’s ability to attract intelligent women willing to share their knowledge in the pages of her magazine. But I wished their work didn’t have to be enveloped by photos of lipsticks, articles on “yoga for your face” and psychotainer/entertiatrist Dr. Phil.
When I had a fever as a little kid, my folks would crush my aspirin into a teaspoon of sugar water to disguise the flavor of the bitter pill. This seemed to be a grown-up version of the old aspirin trick. O, The Oprah Magazine hides life lessons within pages of sweet treats.
Maybe I
shouldn’t have a license to read magazines that are filled with pretty things. They tend to give me a bit of an inferiority complex. I tell myself I buy magazines for inspiration and entertainment, but in the end, I almost invariably compare myself and my life to what is shown in the idealized imagery. For several years I was on a complete magazine fast. I wouldn’t even pick one up to pass the time in a waiting room, partly because I was working on my own empowerment and partly because I’m a germophobe. You might see a three-year-old copy of Golfer’s Digest in my doctor’s office, but I see enough bacteria to bring civilization as we know it to its knees.
But I digress….
Fashion magazines were the worst for me. Logically, I know those images don’t reflect real women. Before I became a yoga teacher I was a graphic designer and understand the magical power of Photoshop. I know how to make a five foot four inch woman with curves look like a six foot two inch alien who could pass through a keyhole. Even with that comprehension, looking at those models and actresses still made me feel like my butt was a little squishier, my hair a little frizzier, and my teeth a bit more crooked than could ever pass for beautiful. Knowing I had this embarrassing tendency to allow an inanimate object make me feel crappy, I went cold turkey. And it felt good. I felt free from the desire to compare myself to some media-manufactured idea of beauty. But like a drug addict who never truly kicks the habit, one day I found myself in the magazine section of a convenience store, looking for a fix. Stupid Vanity Fair Young Hollywood issue!
I am very curious to see what my relationship with O will be over the next eleven-plus months. I am hoping I’ll be able to see past the advertising and sweet treats in order to benefit from the wisdom of the contributors.
January 8, 2008
I discover a discrepancy between Oprah’s priorities and my own. On a show that insists it is giving its audience bargain ideas to decorate ourselves and our homes, Oprah tells her guest, “I think in terms of investment… the best thing you can ever give yourself is to have beautiful surroundings.”
