The journey to Oprah

Some accomplishments require great sacrifice, and this is one such example: I made it to The Oprah Show!

            OK, I was only an audience member. But don’t think for a minute that this was a simple feat to pull off. You could more easily muscle your way through Heathrow International Airport security—with a digital clock strapped to your chest—than you could beg your way into Harpo Studio. I know because I used all my skills, wit, and even the powers of The Secret to get there.

No, I didn’t play “the journalist card” and whip out my press credentials. Come to think of it, I don’t have any credentials. But had I owned a press pass, I probably wouldn’t have relied on it. There was no need to seek detrimental treatment.

My plan was to uncover how the last minute Oprah Show ticket process works for the average impulsive crazed fan.

Here’s what I learned: You can’t just show up at Harpo Studio and join the stand-by crowd unless you have a confirmation letter obtained from a Chicago hotel concierge. Letter requests must be made by 2:00 p.m. on the day before any given performance. And though I successfully obtained the coveted document, this only modestly improved my chances of securing an audience seat.

By the time I arrived at Harpo Studio, a stream of people were waiting to get inside. A line of about 300 enthusiastic viewers wrapped around the building. These individuals belonged to an elite class identified as “confirmed ticket holders.” I, on the other hand, was instructed to stand in a much shorter file of folks categorized as the if-someone-drops-dead-you’ll-fill-their-seat caste. And might I add that sudden death is about what would have been required—because Celine Dion was Oprah’s celebrity guest that day.

CELINE DION! My favorite singer!

After two hours of standing outdoors, where chilling northerly winds gusted to

40 mph, I made it through three rounds of American Idol-like dismissals and all the way inside the studio headquarters. Now I was third in line to fill any remaining empty seats.

Security staff relieved me of my camera, cell phone, emergency hairspray and all the paper contents from my handbag. My bladder could have used some relief, too, but I wasn’t about to step out of line at this point.

Eventually, I was told all the seats were full. But I was permitted to view the taping via a flat panel screen in the holding area where I’d been waiting. An audience coordinator invited me to return the next morning and assured me that I’d be “number one” on the stand-by list. However, right then, I felt more like “number two.”

The following day, I lined up, alone in the dark, at 6:37 a.m., in front of Harpo Studio. Once again the show had been booked to capacity. Still, there was an outside chance I might get a seat.

Minutes before the program began, after having repeated the prior day’s drill, about a half dozen of us were finally led to a smattering of empty chairs. Appropriately, the show was a Dr. Oz special about aging. I figured I’d already shaved at least five years off my lifespan by simply trying to get an audience seat.

When I relayed my Oprah adventure to my husband, he declared, “There’s absolutely nobody I care to see that badly.”

“Sure there is,” I said. “You just haven’t ever been offered the right opportunity.”

“Oh, yeah? Who would it be, then?” he asked.

“Maybe Charlize Theron or Julia Roberts or, I don’t know . . . Pamela Anderson.”

He grinned and said nothing.

The trades we’re willing to make always reveal our priorities. But, hey, now I can truthfully say I’m an author who’s been on The Oprah Show.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more like it, you may want to buy the book Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road: Humorous Views on Love, Lust & Lawn Care, by Diana Estill--available online and in your favorite bookstores.

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Last Updated: Tuesday, March 25, 2008 09:01 PM