The Oprah Letters - Dear Oprah Winfrey, Please Cut Me Some Slack

Dear Oprah,How are you? I am fine. Well, actually, I'm not so fine considering I woke up with night sweats four times last night and my middle-aged eyes are so bad I can't read a blessed thing which is why I accidentally took the dog's medication instead of my thyroid pill.

But oh! Let me stop right there. Instead of flinging such negative karma to the universe, you would want me to choose gratitude for what comes my way. Therefore I declare that I am thankful that I will never have to endure the ravages of heart-worm.

I'm writing you today about last Thursday's show when you and your gal pal, Marianne Williamson asked us to embrace the miracle of aging.

Now Ms. Winfrey I try to do all the things that you say. Were it not for your book club, who knows what I would read. And how else would I refer to my va-jay-jay in public if it weren't for you spreading the word. All though I do wonder just why I want to be referring to my va-jay-jay at cocktail parties and such but not matter. I'm sure you'll have a friend on your show who will explain that to me too.

And speaking of your friends, I really must say I'm enjoying them all. Especially that cute Dr. Oz with his deep, probing questions. Gosh, when he wanted to know, "Do you ever sit back at night and think, 'Why do I have public hair?'" , I was ever so impressed. I had never considered that before.

If anything, I usually sit back at night, in the spare five minutes I have after the kids are in bed, the dog has been walked, the dishes are done and the e-mail's been checked and lapse into a comatose state. If ever I think of my pubic hair these days, it's to idly wonder if Lady Grecian makes a formula for the nether regions.

You and Miss Williamson (who is lovely by the way - kind of like a cross between Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island and Leona Helmsley) directed us viewers to believe that 50 and beyond will be the most miraculous time of our lives and I so want to believe!

But Ms. Winfrey there is one teeny, tiny thing niggling at the edge of my mind. I hate to bring it up, your Oprahness because I know what I project will ultimately come back but ma'am, what should we do about the parts of midlife that suck?

Don't get me wrong, I know that forty is fabulous and fifty is fearsome. But do I have to love everything that's happening to me now?

I know to look at the good side of things, really I do. I try to be happy when I notice my hair thinning. "It's not gone," I tell myself. "It's just moved." To my chin.

I'm trying to make the best of my hot flashes too. I'm Canadian. Surely the extra heat means I'll save on my winter wardrobe.

And when I can't read small print on prescriptions or pill bottles, I try to stay positive and just guess what to take. Golly, apart from that near fatal overdose, things have been fine.

I'm not just asking for myself Oprah. I'm thinking of my friends. Unlike you, we don't throw lavish parties where famous friends read us poetry. Our little get-togethers are modest affairs with bottles of moderately priced Merlot and lengthy discussions of our raging hormones, wayward teens and Betty the Cougar's affair with Alex the pool boy. We need to blow off a little steam.

So please Oprah Winfrey, please cut me some slack.