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 My recurring nightmare about rearranging the furniture in my home has been replaced by dreams starring Oprah Winfrey.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 changed. 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.
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 people 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.
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:
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.
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 Roizen. 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.
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.
Photo © Jim Stevens
Here I am, all powdered and glossed.
Photo © Jim Stevens
Betty Crocker, watch your back!
Photo © Jim Stevens
Apricot, Ginger, and Walnut Tea Bread: One of y homemade Christmas gifts for my in-laws.
December 2008 Accounting
| Date | Assignment | Cost | Time | Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 12/1 | Read O from cover to cover. (LO) | 4h 30m | ||
| 12/1 | Listen to 2-part interview with Sinus Relief Now author Dr. Jordan S. Josephson. (WEB) | 0h 11m | I had a sinus infection and looked to Oprah.com for relief. | |
| 12/4 | “Don’t let scammers and con artists make you their next victim.” | 0h 0m | Will do. (O) | |
| “Online buyers and sellers, I want you to beware.” | Will do. (O) | |||
| Because many scammers are sending around fake Oprah offers/sweepstakes, Ms. W said, “So, always check our website to confirm if an offer is the real thing.” (SHOW) | ||||
| 12/4 | “Go to theoprahstore.com today” (SHOW) | 0h 2m | I went. | |
| 12/5 | “A panini maker is the thing to have.” (SHOW) | 70.85 | 0h 45m | I bought this but we didn’t use it until May 2009. |
| 12/9 | And finally, an assignment about tomorrow’s rerun: “Call your best friend and watch this together.” (SHOW) | 0h 5m | Called. Watched. | |
| 12/11 | Makeup application — received bulk e-mail and was led to info on how to apply on Oprah.com. (WEB) | 18.48 | 1h 0m | Didn’t have all the makeup supplies necessary — who knew I needed to shimmer so much over the holidays? (2-for-1 sale at drugstore) |
| 12/17 | “Don’t miss the hilarious, Emmy Award–winning 30 Rock.” (SHOW) | 0h 0m | Already done! | |
| 12/19 | “Go put your strengths to work.” | 0h 0m | Oprah is a perfect example of attaining lifelong goals. (O) | |
| And “While you’re waiting on something to happen, you’re waiting on some miracle that’s gonna show itself, and suddenly you don’t have to do it anymore, it’s always waiting on you. The universe is waiting on you.” (SHOW) | ||||
| 12/19 | Buy goat milk. Oprah was impressed with it on show about Blue Zones. (SHOW) | 3.69 | 0h 30m | I like it! |
| 12/20 | Happy Light (WEB) | 119.99 | 0h 15m | Feeling down because of Chicago’s gray and miserable winter. I checked out Oprah.com for guidance on picking up my mood. I’ll use it this winter, even when not Living Oprah. (O) |
| 12/20 | Refill omega 3 fish oil pills. (SHOW/WEB) | 24.61 | 0h 5m | |
| Dec 23–25, 2009 | Christmas gifts for in-laws (created treats from recipes on Oprah’s website). (SHOW/WEB) | 177.32 | 20h 0m | Next year, I’m knitting everyone a scarf. I gotta get out of the kitchen. |
| 12/24 | Sign up for 2009 Best Life program. (SHOW) | 0h 1m | I honestly don’t think I’ll be following this once the Living Oprah project ends. | |
| 12/25 | Green rice. (WEB) | 14.23 | 0h 30m | This might have been too exotic for my parents-in-law, although my niece loved it. |
| 12/26 | Follow up RealAge test. (WEB) | 0h 20m | I’m 29.6 in RealAge. That makes me 207.2 in dog years. |
| Date | Assignment | Cost | Time | Notes |
| Throughout Month | Watch every episode of Oprah. (LO) | 23h 0m | 23 shows | |
| Throughout Month | Do Best Life Challenge exercise. (BLC) | 6h 0m | 80 minutes a week for 4.5 weeks | |
| Throughout Month | Take A Course in Miracles. (WEB/SHOW) | 7h 45m | approx. 15 minutes a day for 31 days | |
| MONTHLY TOTAL | 429.17 | 64h 59m | ||
| YEAR-TO-DATE TOTAL | 4,781.84 | 1200h 46m | ||
ONGOING PROJECTS
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| 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 | ||||
Blog: Oprah’s weight is back in the news: http://www.livingoprah.com/2008/12/gayle-weighs-in.html
Blog: Christmas: http://www.livingoprah.com/2008/12/still-standing.html and http://www.livingoprah.com/2008/12/let-marathon-commence.html