Oprah peers at me skeptically as I walk onto her new set. I hear the claps and cheers, even a whistle or two, making me glad I selected the short black skirt and cashmere soft pink sweater. Flattering, Danny told me, and he would know. He was my hairstylist before he became a fashion designer, and he always tells me what’s the best length for my hair, and my hemline.
But I digress. I silently thank Danny for his fashion tips and sashay up to the re-emerged talk show queen, who is looking glamorous and slim in black and purple today. We shake hands, but I can tell she’s a little worried about this interview.
“So, Pamela, here you are. Bestseller hitting a million copies sold, popular speaker on the college circuit as well as political events and women’s lunches.”
The audience chuckles. So do I. I just wait for Oprah to get brave enough to ask me.
“Well, everyone in America knows what you claim to be able to do. You’ve written a book teaching others how they can do this too. But first, we need a demonstration.”
Oprah’s beautiful chocolate face turns beet red, and I smile encouragingly at her.
“Pamela, what am I thinking?”
I stare into Oprah’s eyes, read her mind, and then turn toward the now quiet audience.
“Oprah, you’re hoping I’m a quack.”
Peels of laughter, even from my host, which is quite satisfying. I adjust the black knit skirt over my knees and continue.
“You approve of my appearance but think the skirt is a bit short for television. Overall, you believe I’m not bad looking for a 55-year-old.”
More laughter, but I talk over it. “You’re tired and want to race for a massage when this show is over. You wonder who booked me in the first place and couldn’t they have come up with something better, because really NO one can read minds. You want fried chicken for dinner tonight, but know that instead you’ll eat the skinned boneless Cordon bleu that your chef already prepared. You wish I’d shut up, and you hate the way that your bra is too tight and the clasps are pinching you in the back.”
I stop. Oprah studies me, afraid I’ll continue, but I give her a soft conspiratorial glance that lets her know the rest of her secrets are safe.
She stands, motions for me to stand also, and then walks into my arms, hugging me hard.
“Wow,” she says, first to me, and then to the audience. “Wow. We have the genuine article here, ladies and gentlemen.”
Oprah waits for the whispered chatter to end before she signs off with some advice: “Steer clear from her!”
She hurries off the stage before I do, presumably for that massage.