Of Oprah and Pecs

Wow, I didn’t realize that my teaser left you all with such breathless anticipation. It’s nice to know you’re paying attention, at least.

In an effort to not disappoint, I shall begin with Oprah.

The other night I watched the episode in which 2 young women confessed that they had sexual addictions. They went on and on about how many men they had slept with and their complete disregard of their own personal safety. They started out confident and almost proud of their escapades, seemingly confused as to why they were doing what they were doing, yet unable to stop. Meanwhile, Oprah looked on with respectful, yet disgusted, distance. “THAT many different penises? I mean, I just don’t get it!”

Then later in the show the resident psychologist Dr. So and So (I can’t remember her name – the gaunt mocha-skinned woman with the big eyes who seems to have undergone some sort of TV makeover recently) bashed these two women over the head with the reason that they were exhibiting such self-destructive behavior. For one girl, it was because of a long-ago desertion by her father. For the other, it was because she was teased as a child. For both, it came down to an issue of low self-esteem.

Now that I’ve given you the book report, here’s what I wanted to say. Looking past the fact that people will say anything to get on Oprah’s show and meet her, I had a pretty strong reaction to this episode. I know that lots of people have self esteem issues. I have heard similar remarks from the mouths of dear friends. What struck me was how profoundly a child’s experiences can affect her life. I look at everything through the eyes of a mother now – that’s why I can’t stand watching American Idol. (I have stopped watching, by the way. Not by choice, but by negligence. Keep forgetting to tivo.) And I watched this Oprah show the same way. I felt so bad for the slutty chicks’ parents.

Again, I was overwhelmed with the great responsibility that I have assumed by becoming a parent. Stewart and I have entered this vocation with the best of intentions, but I know there’s a possibility that we may unwittingly damage our children nonetheless. (Yes, I said children. No, I’m not pregnant. No, we did not secretly purchase a second child. Yes, we intend to have another.) I guess the best we can do is our best, and then “give the rest up to God.” (My friend Kim, who goes to church, said that.)

I went to yoga again a few times last week. One class was a classic Gym Yoga class – left me sweaty and breathless and very very sore. The other night, actually – right before I watched Oprah – was a relaxing Hatha Yoga class taught by a Middle Eastern guy. I could hardly understand what he was saying beyond “tek a dip blehth…” but I really liked his style. He kept mentioning the sun and how much it does for us. At the end of class, he sat in lotus position (cross-legged, for the uninformed) and held his hands together as if in prayer. I assumed that was the end of class and prepared to bend forward in the traditional “namaste” or thank you, that you offer when class is done. Instead, the yogi rubbed his palms together really really fast, like Miyagi in “The Karate Kid.” I stifled a giggle, then a guffaw when he quickly pressed his palms to his eyes in a gesture that looked like nothing more than the classic “peekaboo” that I do with Kyle everyday. You’d think I never attended a yoga class in my life. I left there feeling uplifted and unconcerned with myself – refreshing after a week of self-absorption and pity.

I don’t think I have a problem with self-esteem. I’ve always thought pretty highly of myself, actually, and I attribute that partly to my parents, who never had any other future in mind for me other than great success. Sometimes I whine and moan about how I never went to medical school or finished my racecar documentary, thinking I let myself and lots of other people down. But for the most part, I feel great success in my life, and it’s not a cop-out to consider a good family and a healthy child great success. I want to foster that kind of feeling in Kyle and his little sister (that’s wishful thinking) and give them the opportunity to go and feel great success.

Even though I complain about how different my life is now that I am a SAHM, I am proud of my new vocation. When I went out to a birthday party at a gay club the other night (the club was called iCandy. I-CANDY!) I met a group of former coworkers – not all gay, and none of whom have children. I found myself talking mostly about Kyle. Actually, I was shouting, mostly, over Madonna and JayZ and Gwen Stefani. At one point I stopped myself to make sure I wasn’t boring the hell out of everyone I talked to. I think all was well, and that all listeners were actually interested in topics like poop, breastfeeding, and mommy groups. And cake! There was a gorgeous sheet cake involved, with a mockup cover of GQ airbrushed on it, with the birthday boy as the cover model. I was nuts about this cake. It had to soak up my 1 alcoholic beverage of the evening. Tasty, yet useful.

So – here’s my point. Practicing yoga boosts your self-esteem, so that you don’t have to sleep with 80 guys and their different penises to get on Oprah. You can just write to her and say you are a bedraggled new mother who needs a makeover. Yeah, you and 50 hundred others.

Side note: MEG RYAN AND HER LIPS. Seriously? Meg! What the hell? You were SO pretty before, and now you look like Huey, Duey, or Louie. My old roommate had some crazy cosmetic surgery done to her face and she wound up looking a LOT like that. It was pretty scary to come home one day and see her all bloated and bruised with duck face. In the end, it didn’t make her any prettier. And Meg? How could being married to Dennis Quaid be all THAT bad?

Another side note: who knew that Elmo is really a giant black guy?! There’s really not much more to say about that, except that who knew that Elmo is really a giant, RICH black guy?