In Oprah We Trust
In Oprah we trust.
I have decided that Oprah is the 21st century’s answer to housewives of Orange County. Aside from being she-god of our television sets, she’s got her cry-athon book club sponsored by Kleenex Tissues. We as viewers soak it all in and cry it all out. Every single word she says equivalates to drops of precious hugs. She puts the O in w_man, p_wer, m_ney, d_nati_ns, _rganizatin, benev_lence, religi_n, and g__dwill.
For some reason, she offers us (well, me) comfort and re-assurance. She is an advocate of freedom, woman’s rights, justice for all and even at times, a spokesperson for JC himself. It is no wonder why people (I) turn to Lady O’s hour shows to solicit her wisdom and advice. We (moi) don’t just trust her. Moi believe her. Somewhere in the world, some one is watching her right now, this very afternoon, instead of feeding their own curiosity. Or worse, their kid.
Oprah has a cult. I should know. I’m in it. I attend O hour more frequent than church. After watching yet another inspiring episode of Lady O based on a book by Eckhart Tolle “A New Earth”, guess what I did? Damn right you are. Like an emotional sheep I followed the herd before me to the “Motivation” section (a.k.a Self-Help) and did my $29.95 worth. In bold it reads “AWAKENING TO YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE”. A little too force feed for me but thou shall not challenge Lady O. I felt a sense of relief as soon as the cashier sealed the deal. And I clutched it in my hand with a sense of relief. As if the book sprouted arms, climbed on my shoulder and carefully whispered into my ears, “you are already a winner for buying me” or “I will save you”. Creepy? Maybe. But of course, it could be the marketing seed ticking within that has prompted me to buy it in the first place.
In truth, writers and novelists have come to admire Oprahs’ infrequent Book Club announcements with the desperate fever of a sweaty Lottery ticket. If their title is announced, writers know they can opt for early-retirement and fat royalty checks as hundreds of thousands of eager lost beavers like myself, flock to the bookstores to become part of the Seven Sisters Sorority. For writers who aspire to see large cardboard cutouts of themselves beside the neon words, “As seen on Oprah,” there is only life B.O. (Before Oprah) and A.O. (After Oprah).
I am not sure why I bought this book. Especially when I am fully conscious of the fact that, Self-help books + Me = oil and water. We don’t mix. Stubborn form of mixture. Something about the natural esters of glycerol. Anyway! I guess I’m hoping that this book will somehow shed some light on how to improve my outlook on life. Cos for now, its pretty bleak but as my facebook status reads:
I’m starting to sound like a self-help blurb….. Darn it.