by Robyn Okrant
Early the next morning, I am already up and at ’em when I receive my wake-up call, my bedside clock blasts, the alarm on my cell phone rings, and my mother telephones to make sure I’m awake. I’m up, I’m up. Overly tired but fueled by adrenaline, I get dressed. It’s the first time I’ve ever worn my Brooks Brothers crisp white shirt outside of the house and I must say, I understand why Oprah loves it. It looks super and there’s not a wrinkle in sight. It also costs around the same as the rest of the outfit combined, including my shoes. I grab my purse and head over to the NBC building.
As I walk past security, I think about how Oprah does this every day. It’s wild to imagine how one could become accustomed to speaking to millions on a daily basis. Of course, she would probably say the same thing about going to work and teaching people how to put their ankles behind their heads. I stroll past the onlookers outside the NBC building, and no one gives me a second glance. I love the renewed anonymity of being out of my own neighborhood. Getting lost in the hustle and bustle of New York in the morning actually relaxes me. I check in with an NBC page and am told to wait in a small greenroom, where I’m seated with two political pundits I see all the time on Sunday morning news shows. One, a far-right conservative, and the other, a well-known liberal, are chatting easily, although they are never so genteel on camera. Awaiting their moment to go on, they munch sandwiches and get their caffeine fix (the Republican sipping a Diet Coke, the Democrat polishing off a coffee). It’s clear they are at home on the talk show circuit. On the other hand, I feel like the country mouse, visiting her city mouse cousin.
A producer calls my name and brings me downstairs to a bigger greenroom. This one is loud and filled with people moving and talking a mile a minute. I’m told to sit and wait until makeup, hair, and wardrobe can see me. There’s more food here, but I’m wearing my crisp white shirt and I’m terrified I’ll spill something on myself, so I pass.
As I await my turn in the makeup chair, I sit in this frenetic room, alongside the Harlem Globetrotters, a grieving family whose daughter was brutally murdered, a slew of male calendar models, Santa Claus, and the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. Oh, joy — nothing makes me feel prettier and more secure about my physical appearance than being surrounded by gorgeous women in skintight hot pants. I regret that I didn’t wear my Spanx underneath the tailored black trousers mandated by Oprah.
Look! There’s the handsome cast of a new television show, ready to promote its premiere. I also hear the telltale voice of one of Oprah’s regular style experts emanating from one of the private dressing rooms devoted to celebs. What a coincidence she’s on this morning. I’m concerned she’ll see my outfit and tell me I’ve done everything wrong. Publicly. There’s a guy sitting next to me on the couch showing off some medieval rings he’s brought to the show. I ask what he’ll talk about on camera and he says he is not going to be on camera. I guess the rings are to be the guest and he’s their chaperone. That should be a quick interview.
Surrealer and surrealer.
The crazier it gets around me, the calmer I become. There’s something about the chaos and the noise and the basketball players flirting with cheerleaders that acts as a sedative, and I feel my body relax into the big couch.
I have to give a shout-out to Reggie, Oprah’s makeup artist. While I might not be wild about the copious amount of false eyelashes he glues on her, I found his advice very helpful this morning when I put my face on. Earlier this year, I purchased makeup suggested on Oprah’s show, website, and magazine, but I really didn’t know what to do with it. Although I am confident in my ability to put on special-effects theatrical makeup, I didn’t think my appearance on national television would be the right time to make myself look like a wrinkled crone or the Phantom of the Opera. I want to feel pretty when I sit across from dreamy Matt Lauer. I got online and found Reggie’s Makeup 101 lesson and did my best in a short amount of time. One disappointment: He teaches that we need at least three colors of lipstick to create the perfect lip, and I only had one hue. Who knew?
When I sit down in the makeup chair, a lovely staffer tells me my makeup is already perfect. She barely has to do a thing to my face. I am so happy I did everything correctly, I consider writing Reggie a thank-you note. I am beaming. I wonder if this means I’d also be good at paint by numbers.
The rest of my time in the studio flies past. I am steamed and ironed and fluffed and lint-rolled. From the security guards to the pages to the producers and crew, everyone is incredibly kind to me. One of the guys on the crew bashfully mentions he is reading Oprah’s new Book Club pick and loving it. Most people give me a wink and a nod and a supportive pat on the back. I’m not feeling nervous at all, but I think my out-of-body experience is keeping me from quaking in my boots.
While I’m waiting to be brought on set, Matt Lauer gives me a wave. He’s reading some notes (about me, I think, prepping for the interview) and munching on a cookie. Oh, Matt. It’s not even 8 AM. I’m hooked up to a microphone by the sound guy as I’m seated on the couch. I’m amazed how comfortable I am. I’ve been watching this show for years, and their set has become a satellite extension of my living room. It feels weird that it doesn’t feel weird to be here.
Suddenly, we go live and I force myself not to look at my image in the monitors or read along with the teleprompter.
I’m allowed to talk about my project, answer some fun questions (Do I think other people should trying Living Oprah? No way!) and some challenging ones (regarding my choice to vote for Oprah’s favored candidate in the primary), and clear up most misconceptions people might have about the purpose of my year (I swear I’m not an obsessed fan!). Matt (we’re on a first-name basis) says that they contacted Oprah’s people, and a spokeswoman from Harpo, Inc., has given Today a quote. (Yikes! I didn’t know that was coming.) “Her blog takes a novel approach to being a fan. She certainly takes brand dedication to a whole new level.” I don’t know if that means that they are acknowledging that I’m trying to understand Oprah’s fan culture from the inside, or if they think I am vying for the presidency of her fan club. I decide to file that one for later.
The interview ends just as I feel I’ve gotten warmed up. Matt is hilarious, welcoming, and fun to talk to. Cohost Meredith Vieira is really kind to me off camera.
She asks, “Why aren’t you Living Vieira?”
I tell her maybe next year.
After I’m detached from my microphone and grab my purse, I’m ushered out of the building. I find my phone and dial Jim to see what he thought of the interview. As I hear his warm hello, I begin to take in what is happening around me. The crowd outside the studio is waving at me and calling out, “Hey, Oprah Lady!” A man reaches out to shake my hand. Then another. I entered the building completely anonymous and am leaving it as someone whom people want to talk to and touch. What is it about TV that instantly makes someone more interesting? I am just as boring as I was when I entered the studio. Maybe more so.
Later in the morning, people who have seen the show ask if I’ll pose with them for pictures. I do, because as I still haven’t entirely recovered from my out-of-body experience, I am not as protective of my personal space as when I’m in my body. One woman holds up a copy of O magazine when our photo is snapped. For the rest of the morning, people shout out to me across the street, talk to me in elevators, and pat me on the back as I pay for my salad at lunch. Geez! How many people watch morning television? I am so relieved when the limo picks me up in front of my hotel to bring me back to the airport.
Noticing the mini hubbub as the car pulls away from the curb, the driver looks at me though his rearview mirror, “You famous or somethin’?”
“No,” I say.
He stares a moment longer, then readjusts his mirror. “Yeah, me, either.”
After I check my bag at LaGuardia, I walk to the gate and one woman yells out that she saw me on Today and loves my leopard-print flats. I become a little paranoid, careful not to do anything to embarrass myself in public. I w
ant to spit out my gum but can’t figure out a way to do it gracefully, so I keep chewing until it becomes bitter, stiff, and slightly nauseating. Finally, I scoot to the bathroom and get rid of it. I feel watched and ridiculous for feeling like I’m being watched. I hide behind my sunglasses, wishing I hadn’t pooh-poohed the oversized frame trend this year.
Mercifully, just a few hours later, I’m back home as if nothing happened. Jim taped the Oprah show I missed this morning, and I sit cross-legged on the floor watching. I’m wearing my sock-monkey pajamas, eating the sushi that he and my friend Jefferson have ordered. We talk briefly about Today. I tell them that almost everyone who called, texted, or e-mailed after the show asked me how tall Matt Lauer is. Jim and Jefferson laugh and then ask me how tall Matt Lauer is. The conversation quickly turns to other matters, like the upcoming Céline Dion concert and our to-die-for spicy tuna rolls.
I am relieved everything is back to normal.
Once again, I can’t tell if life is imitating art or vice versa. This morning Oprah encourages us to follow our passions and have faith that our hard work and zeal will lead to a paycheck. She doesn’t want us to waste our time at jobs that suck our souls. Unless, I suppose, it is our goal in life to have our souls sucked. In which case, she’d probably support us.
She motivates us by saying, “Find out how to get paid for doing what you love.”
And “Following your passion, allowing yourself to be paid for what you love will give you a meaningful life, you know?” And “Do what you love and the money will come.”
I know lots of folks (me included) who would be more than happy to allow themselves to earn a paycheck doing what they love. Most of them are entirely receptive to financial reward for their hard work, and in their defense, I must say Oprah’s statement has rubbed me the wrong way. I feel she’s insinuating it’s our fault if we’re not making a living in our fields of choice. I’m upset by her words and want to argue with them, but as I’ve just signed my first book contract as a result of following my passion, I feel like a huge hypocrite. Still, I can’t help myself. Hypocrisy be damned! While I do agree that the world is full of possibility if we work hard and stay focused, I also think a key element in the alchemy of success is luck. We can work our butts off and keep our eyes on the prize, but this component of the success puzzle is not always under our control. It does help to be in the right place at the right time. What I think is special about Oprah is that she figured out how to identify her wave and ride it. That’s what I think many of us really need to learn. How to recognize opportunity and take advantage of it, understanding that the window might be open for only a short time.
The reason I want to lay out my opinion is I’ve heard from women who feel pretty low because, no matter how hard they work and sacrifice to make their dreams come true, they aren’t seeing a payoff. I think we have to consider that the formula for success is complicated, unpredictable, and not entirely in our control. I don’t think Oprah agrees. “I don’t believe in luck,” she says. “I think luck is preparation meeting opportunity.”
We all talk about how it is amazing that Oprah pulled herself from humble beginnings to mind-blowing success. But we should also realize that when Oprah became a syndicated talk show in 1986, she was just 32 years old. That’s pretty early in life to get your dream job. Plus she got her first position in the industry she loves at age 17. She didn’t have to wait with bated breath, keeping her fingers crossed when it came to career. Unlike Oprah, many of my blog readers, and many of the women in my life, are one or two decades further into their hunt for elusive success. When she says, “Do what you love and the money will come,” these can be inspiring words, but might also feel like a kick in the shins for some folks exhausted by hard work and lack of monetary reward.
It seems to me that many of the country’s most successful businesspeople don’t believe in luck, and they attribute their high status to their hard work. Does this mean they think they’ve worked harder than those of us lower down the economic totem pole? If so, do they consider themselves more deserving of success than those struggling to make ends meet? I don’t know. I guess it’s also possible that Oprah and I simply have different definitions of luck. Perhaps it’s pesky language getting in the way once again.
On July 11 this year, I was at Café Selmarie in Chicago with Grace, eating our favorite sweet potato fries with chipotle dipping sauce. These, by the way, are what I’d choose if I could have just one food for the rest of my life. I should mention that these are not actually fried, but oven roasted. I don’t want anyone to think I’m cheating on Bob Greene. I love them, and the café that makes them, so much that I convinced Jim to name our recently adopted kitten Selmarie in their honor. Our server approached our table and sheepishly asked, “Are you the Oprah Lady?” I froze like a deer in the headlights. I was still anonymous at this point, and the article in the Chicago Reader had just hit the stands. Because I was so uncomfortable at being recognized, I did what I always do when I’m feeling awkward: I started babbling. Even though I knew the poor waitress had to get back to work, I couldn’t get my gums to stop flapping, and I think I told her my entire life story. When she finally, gently, extricated herself, Grace and I started to laugh. My eager-to-please dial must have been set to maximum power. Being recognized by a stranger was one of the oddest experiences of my life.
And it continues, especially now that people know my name and have seen my face.
The recognition makes me a bit panicky, and I try to pretend it’s not happening. I’ve never before been on the business end of a pointing finger, and it’s odd. This afternoon is gorgeous and sunny. I walk down the familiar sidewalks in my neighborhood to do a few errands. A woman rolls down the window of her SUV and yells, “Did Oprah tell you to buy those jeans?” Why, yes, yes, she did. I do my best to identify the voice and peer into the window as the driver rolls it back up. I’m pretty sure she was a complete stranger.
Pardon the drama, but I feel my identity slipping away. Initially, this was intentional. I got the ball rolling when I decided to follow Oprah’s plan for living rather than listen to my own intuition. Since the beginning of the year, life has been feeling decreasingly vibrant, which makes sense as I’m really just living as a faded version of myself. This has become more and more uncomfortable for me as the months wear on. And now, when I’m addressed as the Oprah Lady, I feel like I’m being stripped of even more of my individuality. I don’t have any power over this and I don’t like it. This by-product of my experiment isn’t a component I expected, and while I do not relish it, I suppose it speaks to the effect of turning off one’s intuition in order to travel with the herd.
While it’s important to allow complete transparency on my blog, when I’m faced with offline recognition, I have a strong urge to protect my privacy. But it’ll detract from the project if I construct a wall between my personal and public lives. For now, I’ll pretend it’s not happening and go about my project as if people weren’t calling “Hey, Oprah Lady!” at me from their SUVs.
I make a mental note to wear my headphones whenever I leave the house.
I’m sweating, pedaling away in front of the television. My bike — my beloved Gary Fisher that I’ve converted into a stationary bike by attaching it to an indoor trainer — has become a regular fixture in the living room this year. I can frequently be found cycling in the mornings as I watch Oprah. I’ve attached a little basket to the handlebars so I can have my remote control, a notebook, and my cell phone (with Internet access) within arm’s reach. I can do my BLC exercise, make notes on the show, and check my blog all at the same time. I wish my exercise could also generate the electricity to power the television. Now that would be handy.
I’ve just reread an e-mail from my good friend Jefferson — Yoda of all television knowledge in my world. The subject of the note is today’s episode, which has been quite a mystery. The promotions for the show have hinted that we’ll learn all about Oprah’s favorite to-die-for gadget, and
Jefferson has discovered online that the device is the Amazon Kindle. This makes sense as Oprah loves to read.
For those of you not in the know, the Kindle is an electronic reader. It’s wireless, like your cell phone, and can download a gazillion books or periodicals from Amazon.com for a cost of approximately ten bucks per book. It weighs as much as half a human hair, has cured cancer, makes a perfect soufflé, and will bring peace to the Middle East. At least that’s what it feels like as Oprah launches into her promotion of the gadget. You can only get it at one place: Amazon.com. Her excitement is so fervent, she must make one thing clear: “I personally — let me just say this — I have no stake in the Kindle. I know it sounds like I do.” I wonder what the frenetic energy must look like in Amazon’s warehouses right now. I hope CEO Jeff Bezos made sure there were extra portable defibrillators in the packing area before the announcement. We all know that every time Oprah announces her love of a product, it flies off the shelves. And today her long endorsement is like an infomercial that I might see in the wee hours of the morning when I’m watching television, too stressed by this project to sleep. I feel as if I can read her audience’s collective consciousness as they giddily hope she’ll give each of them her favorite toy (she does).
I have a really weird premonition that she will send me one, but I dismiss it as quickly as it enters my mind. I am actually embarrassed by my ego, and I pedal a little faster. Why on earth would Oprah give me a present? Her staff has never contacted me or communicated the least bit of interest in my project. I doubt they’ll start by sending me a rather expensive gift. Oy! Robyn, get ahold of yourself. Oprah says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you all one at home, too.” I giggle and say to the TV screen, “No worries, Oprah. No gifts necessary.”
