Living Oprah

by Robyn Okrant

  Once I get home from the studio, I head directly to my computer. I begin researching meditation and spa vacations in remote destinations — beaches, jungles, and mountains far away from magazine stands and American television. I have a terrible desire to get away from it all. Jim, ever the pragmatist, reminds me we’re broke. We begin a vigil around the mailbox, hoping for the quick receipt of the first installment of my book advance.

  I ask Jim if he regrets that I let a couple offers slide last year for documentary films and a reality television show based on my project. We have a good laugh. One person suggested the project could be called Living Oprah! That’s Living Oprah with an exclamation point, to show how wacky I am.

  When the first inquiry came in, I laughed out loud, thinking the guy was joking. My amazement quickly faded into disinterest. My project felt too dear to me to allow it to become a spectacle. Plus I have a control-freak streak. If this project was in the hands of a reality television producer, my life could be hijacked and edited into something I didn’t intend. I cringed at the thought of being portrayed as a crazed fanatic or a mean-spirited Oprah hater. Blogging and writing a book about my year might not draw in as large an audience as a TV show, but at least I could retain my self-respect. And what if the show was a hit? I might have to live this way for years.

  As if my main concern about Living Oprah! were the size of my paycheck, a friend assured me this had the potential to be a lucrative project. He might have been trying to convince me to do the show but only managed to make me feel dirty. I also imagined it would be the end of my marriage. Jim could handle the disappearance of his trusty television from our bedroom, but I don’t think he’d stand for the addition of high-definition video cameras mounted on our headboard.

  I told one producer I would be very interested in creating other projects with her company, but I wasn’t interested in documenting Living Oprah for television. I imagined crickets chirping during an awkward silence on her end of the phone. She was very polite, in a don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you kind of way, but her voice sounded as if I’d turned down a canteen of water in the desert. There’s a scene in the 1968 movie musical Oliver! that takes place in the dining hall of a gothically depressing orphanage. Our little ragamuffin hero approaches a big brute who is ladling out gruel. Oliver holds up his empty bowl and asks for another serving. The porridge-slopping man says, “More? Nobody asks for more!” I felt similarly disdained when I showed my disinterest in a reality show. “TV? Nobody turns down TV!”

  That was months ago, and now we’re nearing a state of rationing the food in our pantry (thank goodness for all those beans Oprah told us to buy!) and starting to use our credit cards with a little more abandon. While I don’t regret my decision, I can’t help but allow myself to fantasize what the theme song to Living Oprah! would be.

  I still spend a lot of time in front of the computer. I blog about the show and spend hours reading and responding to e-mail. I have read countless appeals from folks who look up to Oprah like a savior and consider her their last, best chance for help. These people are praying for the opportunity to have her shine her philanthropic light upon them. I feel blessed and cursed at the same time that I’ve been the recipient of a cross-section of her e-mail. Of course it isn’t easy to e-mail Winfrey directly, and many solace seekers have a difficult time locating the Contact Us link at the bottom of the website. I suppose because my blog has the name Oprah in the title and an easy-to-find e-mail link, people send their notes to me, instead.

  The scope of Oprah’s charitable giving is wide. She has housed Hurricane Katrina victims and clothed out-of-date fashion victims. Her show highlights a myriad of people she’s pulled up from the depths. I received e-mails questioning Oprah’s motives in helping people in such a public manner, with her name attached to her acts of kindness. It is my sense that many wish she would appear more humble when she hands out aid, thinking that giving should be its own reward, not the accolades one receives for appearing charitable. Initially, I might have agreed with them, but now I do not. If people get help, who cares if Oprah puts her name on each project or foundation? The same marketing power Oprah wields to convince her audience to buy ice cream and fire pits also inspires people to give to charities and donate their time and energy. I’ve heard the criticism that Oprah’s loyal fans are like robots — O-bots, if you like — programmed to allow Winfrey to control their every action. When it comes to helping others, I say bring on the automatons!

  Yes, Oprah stamps her name on lots and lots of stuff. Yes, her brand is everywhere, and sometimes it feels oppressive to me, but when it comes to helping people in need, I will not waste my time and energy on sour grapes.

  I am also the accidental recipient of e-mails from people who hope she’ll promote their products, services, ideas, or talents. I receive the tiniest sampling of her mail, but it’s overwhelming to see how many people hang their hats on the idea that Oprah might change their lives forever. Whoever filters Oprah’s e-mail should receive a raise and a free daily massage. I imagine that it’s a job with a high burnout rate. It’s emotionally draining for me, and I receive only a handful or two each week.

  I can’t bring myself to ignore a single e-mail, even those that come to me mistakenly, and I’ve reluctantly fallen into the role of volunteer for Oprah. I always let the writers know I have no affiliation whatsoever with Winfrey. I wish them luck in their endeavors and direct them to Oprah.com. Sometimes people are simply requesting information about a product seen on the show. If I am able to help them out, I will. I once received a note after an episode with sexpert Laura Berman inquiring about the make and model of a vibrator seen on Oprah. As I replied with the requested information, I thought, “Oh, Robyn, you stooge, why are you acting like Oprah’s help desk? She’s got a massive staff to do this for her.” But I can’t stop myself.

  People spend valuable time attempting to connect to Oprah, and I want them to know their e-mails aren’t floating around in cyberspace. Also, I am oddly concerned they might feel Winfrey is giving them the cold shoulder if I don’t write back and redirect them. They might never receive a note from Oprah or her staff in return, but at least the weight of responsibility is off my shoulders. I don’t want anyone to feel so unimportant that their words go unacknowledged.

  When she received the first Bob Hope Humanitarian Award at the Emmys in 2002, Oprah said, “The greatest pain in life is to be invisible. What I’ve learned is that we all just want to be heard.”

  Years ago, I shrugged off her quote, thinking it too narrow and simplistic. But her words definitely strike a chord with me now. After years of having yoga students approach me to share insights into their practice and how it impacts their daily lives, and after spending 366 days reading comments and e-mails from my blog, I believe she has a great point. I think people want to connect by sharing their histories, opinions, passions, and more. As a result of this project, I’ve cultivated a deeper understanding of how I may be more respectful of other people, not only by listening but by being fully present when they reach out and share with me.

  When I reflect on my project, I feel I’ve done Oprah a disservice by wondering if she can truly understand the priorities of a real woman. Who am I, who is anybody, to define what it means to be a real woman? Does she put on makeup and do her hair before she leaves the house, or is she comfortable looking like a schlumpadinka in public? Is a real woman someone who stays home with the kids, or one who goes to work to support them? Is she a size 2 or a size 20? Does she have trouble making ends meet, or is she rolling in dough? Does she get her period every month, or is she kept awake with hot flashes? Does she have ovaries and breasts, or has she mourned their loss? Is she Oprah, or is she me?

  I overheard a conversation at, where else, the café in which I love to sip and write. There were two women in workout clothes, with jogging strollers, diaper bags, and what seemed like 46 children (but in reality was more like 5). They drank their lattes and watched their tots ravage low-fa
t scones, getting more crumbs on the floor than in their mouths. As the moms compared chipped manicures, one bemoaned how tough it is for real women to get any “me” time because of the demands of raising kids. Well, it’s hard for me to find time for myself as well, but I don’t have any children. Does this mean I’m not a real woman? I’m pretty sure I am. Don’t I have a vulva? I swear I saw it in a hand mirror quite recently. And I loved it.

  It really steams my broccoli to be excluded from my gender based on lifestyle choices. I’m part of the club and no one’s kicking this woman to the curb without a fight. I’ve witnessed gals stake their claim in reality, based on their dress size, sexual orientation, priorities, and abilities. To what end? How useful is this label when it can be used to validate us one day and exclude us the next? I’m going to put it out to pasture.

  Since I’m on a roll, I’m also going to stop using the word “average” to describe myself. What the hell does that mean, anyway? It might assist advertising companies to generate new campaigns, but it doesn’t really apply in the (yes, I’m going to say it) real world. I hear so many people that I consider extraordinary call themselves average that I think average is in the eye of the beholder.

  Another term I’m going to strike from my vernacular to describe women is “normal.” What a useless, boring word. Its only purpose is to create separation between myself and others. I’ve been told I’m not normal because, in yoga class, I can twist myself into pretzely-looking poses. I practiced diligently toward being able to place my body into those positions. How is working hard toward a goal not normal? Oprah’s worked her butt off and can afford a private chef to make vegan meals for her. How is that not normal?

  I’ve heard — and I’ll admit that I’ve used — so much exclusionary language while performing this project, I’m allergic to it. One important lesson that’s been confirmed for me this year is that we’re mighty as a collective but appear petty and create an us-against-them sentiment when we use language to segregate ourselves from each other. You know that annoying “meow” sound that some members of the other gender make when we look down our noses at our sister women? Wouldn’t it be supercool if it went the way of the dinosaurs?

  Oprah might not relate to my priorities, my relationships, my lifestyle, or my needs, but she’s every bit as real a woman as I am. What a yawner it would be if our gender wasn’t an infinite patchwork of lifestyles. I’d love to start a rousing chorus of “I Am Woman,” but my voice is less than inspiring.

  I think I’ll just hum.

  I feel a lot of pressure to provide a black or white answer when it comes to the burning question, “Did you find your Best Life? Did it work?” I am having trouble quantifying the success and all the costs of Living Oprah. There are simple ways to do this, of course: by adding up my receipts and the columns of spreadsheets I maintained to track the time spent on each assignment. I can have the doctor weigh me, check my blood pressure, and I can take RealAge.com tests. I can tally the price of the must-have items in my closet. That stuff is easy.

  However, there are less tangible results that are difficult for me to evaluate. I can’t tell if my relationships with Jim, my family, friends, and students have been forever changed due to absence or strain. I don’t know if the stress and sleepless nights were worth it. Also, what is my time worth? How about missed moments with those I love? Or energy spent feeling more insecure in my mid-30s than I did in my midteens? I can’t put a price tag on these, and they don’t figure cleanly into the bottom line. I battle with this. I would prefer a palpable sum of all the project’s parts. As I look back at my year and grapple to formulate a solid conclusion, I feel as if I am up to my knuckles in a Chinese finger puzzle and the harder I pull, the more stuck I feel. I try to give my tired brain a rest and pick up a magazine (no, not O). A headline — “Lose 1 Dress Size in 2 Weeks!” — screams at me from the cover, and it hits me what a numbers-based society we live in when it comes to defining success. It’s almost impossible for me to think outside that box.

  I formed my career from my passion for yoga because it’s a journey-based practice rather than one of destination. My yoga students have heard my old goofy joke a million times, “It’s yoga practice, not yoga perfect.” So I’m uncomfortable that my latent perfectionism reared its ugly head last year. This project made me so focused on results and clear-cut answers. While Oprah never says that our Best Life has to be based on numbers, she definitely highlights them on her show. We know how much money certain entrepreneurs made, how much weight Oprah lost and gained. We see material wealth and consumerism celebrated. We know how much her Favorite Things cost and how many audience members received a brand-new car. This is one of my major internal conflicts as I digest 2008.

  While I do not believe my Best Life can be quantified, I was continually faced with test results that categorized me, defined me, and diagnosed me. This was a difficult contradiction for me to manage, and I never made peace with it. When it comes to health and wealth, basing success on numbers is mostly valid. But when it comes to happiness, or the health of my relationships, I found the formulas unusable in my own life. Everyone defines success and fulfillment differently, so I think multiple-choice tests are pointless, unless one also enjoys trying to mash square pegs into round holes.

  When I was in graduate school, I took a class that focused much of its attention on virtual reality. I learned that while technology has developed to a point that most objects are uncanny reflections of real life, the least successful area of VR is recreating believable human beings. Visual media programming, for all its flexibility, is a rigid medium with which to work. Think about a pixel. It’s a tiny square. It has sharp edges and angles. How can we create a realistic-looking person when the building blocks are not organic? If I were sculpting the human body, I’d opt to work with Play-Doh over Legos. Just as computer programming based on numbers and edges cannot create a completely believable human being in VR, I don’t think all the numbers, tests, and formulas in the world can define me or guide me toward a happier, healthier, more fulfilling emotional life. While I might be nudged in the right direction, I do not believe I will ever find my own Best Life by these means. Human beings are too nuanced for one-size-fits-all advice.

  Here’s What I Know for Now: From the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, I know I’ll never discover my Best Life when I am trying to live up to someone else’s vision for me. I know it’s fruitless to measure my happiness while using someone else’s yardstick (or meter stick, for all you Céline Dion–loving French Canadians). And why on earth does happiness need to be quantified in the first place? IT CAN’T BE. That is what I learned this year. I know I will never truly believe I am beautiful if I allow someone else’s definition of beauty to impact my self-esteem. I know I will never have a truthful, honest relationship with Jim if I judge my own marriage against others’ unions. The same goes for my friendships and my connection with my family. It is futile and exhausting for me to shape my life to meet anyone else’s standards. And I know there is a hazardous divide between being inspired by others and being dependent on their guidance and approval.

  I now fully understand, if only in theory, not practice, that I can’t depend on outside sources to tell me who I am or who I should be. Of course, I knew this before I started Living Oprah. I’m not going to play dumb and pretend I had no idea that my own truth and beauty should come from within. Yadda yadda yadda. We all know this by now, don’t we? The problem is, until last year, I was absolutely clueless how often I didn’t trust my own instincts. I didn’t know how many seemingly insignificant choices I made during the day — taking an online quiz, poking at my butt in the mirror, reading an article about how not to look old, coveting another woman’s appearance, demeanor, or relationship — chipped away at my “best life.” This project was a magnified version of my existing daily behavior.

  When I was 14, I worked at a roadside ice cream stand. I could put away so much ice cream, dairy-producing cows shuddered
in terror when my name was uttered in their presence. I was told the longer I worked there, the more I’d develop a distaste for ice cream. Didn’t work. Total crap. I loved every single spoonful. Except for the rum raisin — that was pretty gross. Anyhow, while the saturation method didn’t apply to a teenager bent on stuffing down her feelings with delicious frozen treats, it really hit home for me last year. I was filled to the gills with TV, magazines, and the Internet. I saturated myself in the attempt to march to the beat of Oprah’s drummer and hang with the in-crowd. And you know what? It kind of tasted like rum raisin.

  I learned less from following Oprah’s advice than I did by watching her work. No matter what level of success she attains, she is never complacent: She continues to cultivate her brand and thrive. Yet she also struggles to find balance and self-acceptance, just like the rest of us. No amount of celebrity, wealth, or power changes that. So, frankly, I think we can all give up hunting for the elusive path that will lead to our Best Lives. I think the very idea of attaining our Best Lives is a fairy tale that keeps us from being satisfied with our Real Lives.

  I’m grateful that I was witness to Oprah’s methodology this year, and while I might not agree entirely with her philosophy, I wouldn’t trade my experience for anything in the world. Winfrey seeks to empower us. She said in her acceptance speech, when presented with her Lifetime Achievement Emmy, “And I want to continue to use television… I choose to use it in whatever way I can, we can, to make people lead better lives. To lead them to the highest vision possible for themselves. That is the goal.”

  I think this year of watching each episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show, reading every O magazine cover to cover, and referring regularly to her website gave me incredible insight into how I might achieve a happier, more fulfilling life. I truly believe my “highest vision possible” will never be found viewing a television show, flipping though a magazine, or in seeking the approval of others. In fact, I think the biggest compliment I can give Oprah is to acknowledge and appreciate all the lessons I learned from her this year, and turn off my TV.