Oprah, it was nice seeing you in New York this weekend. No, we didn’t exactly speak, but I was the sweaty woman with two grown kids wincing with every step because my feet hurt.
The three of us cut in-between you and your package carrier on 5th avenue. You know, the rude tourists that didn’t make way for the richest and most powerful woman on earth.
You looked awesome, by the way. Cameras are ridiculously cruel, because you are in shape, beautiful, and confident. I wanted to say something like, “Oprah, you look fabulous!” but I was receiving glares from my grown children who knew I wanted to speak to you.
While gawking, I compared myself to you in the way that lesser achievers do. While I stood in my cropped pants, wide-necked shirt with my bra straps showing, and my turquoise Asics track shoes, you sauntered out in your all-white outfit with spiked heels and designer sunglasses.
While I actually assaulted people on either side of me with my frizzy hair, yours was pulled back with a fall that fanned out perfectly.
While I carried a Nike bag and two generic plastic bags (used by the street vendors who completely ripped me off), you had a nice assistant carry yours.
And while I shivered from the memory of eating my breakfast on the subway while the Hannibal Lector-ish man stared at me and made weird noises, you walked leisurely into your tastefully understated limousine.
I will always remember how you glanced at the gawkers politely and smiled. That made me want to follow you home. Not like a stalker, but more like a puppy.
May I just say that even though I struggle watching you on the Oprah show (too much crying for me) I admire what you’ve done for women throughout the world.
You’ve built self-esteem and given away cars and celebrated your BFF while keeping Stedman in his place. We’re not really sure where that place is, but we are sure you’re not running around feeding his ego.
So, here’s to you Oprah. It was nice meeting you. I’m Donna, by the way. The sweaty one with her mouth hanging open.