I have a thing or two to say about Oprah Winfrey. I’m not an Oprah hater, I’m a recovering Opraholic. Lately I’ve gotten to thinking about the evolution of Miss O and in my eyes, her tiara has slipped a notch or two.
Now here’s a true Diva at the top of the food chain, and yet she’s so average Josie that she puts us lesser divas to shame. With all that money, I suppose she can be wholly caring and philanthropic, since all it takes to run a dynasty are some well-paid, loyal staffers. Yet no matter how much glam and bankroll she’s acquired through the years, I’ve never really been bothered by it until she began publishing that damned magazine. And what miffs me is not that she’s well-off, but that she’s well-off in my face all of a sudden.
The rest of us muddle through life trying to be wholly caring and philanthropic, minus the well-paid, loyal staffers. And therein lies my problem…at some point we demi-goddesses need to understand that we are being royally (if unintentionally) put in our place.
When we had to start putting up with tours of Oprah’s guest houses is when I shed my Opraholism and began reading a good book instead of tuning into her show.
For all the fabulous work Miss O has done for the female psyche — for the whole damned wretched human condition, actually — one would think she’d understand that those of us from the “have not” neighborhood are not interested in seeing every flippin’ thing she owns. It’s like driving by your boss’s yard and seeing his underwear hanging out to dry…do you really want to know that he’s into red, cotton-lined leather thongs? Will you ever take him seriously again, knowing that beneath that savvy Armani suit he’s wearing…ohmygod…women’s panties?
Okay, that’s a little extreme (and no, my boss does not wear panties), but you get the idea.
It’s very easy to lose sight of the many contributions she makes for the betterment of mankind when I am staring at Baccarat vases that cost as much as my monthly rent. I know she’s rich. I know she has homes, with an “s.” I know that she can buy and sell most of Manhattan, and as long as she doesn’t point at it and say, “I thought you might like to see what I have,” I don’t feel the least bit threatened by it. But now that I’ve seen the parties, the dinners, the guest quarters, the living rooms, the vacation places…I’ve had enough.
There are still truckloads of things I adore about Oprah: her crusade against child molesters, the empowerment she gives women, the inspiration she has been to overweight people everywhere. I even love her for Dr. Phil because I needed something to truly despise and he fit the bill so nicely! But frankly, even though I know she’s got to fill her magazine with something, I wish it were a little less about her lifestyle and more about yours and mine. Not the lifestyle we can attain, but the lifestyle we are in right now. Poverty and such. How to be a diva in a downtown world.
You may roll your eyes and chalk this all up to a green streak a mile wide. I have nothing to be jealous about (except her stylist is more famous than mine). I’m simply tired of the recent Robin Leach approach that leaves me yearning for more of the Oprah from ten years ago and less of the current O-the-magazine-magnate.
