Who wouldn't go topless for Oprah?

I stayed home sick today because, well, until about noon I was unable to speak. At all. Now I can kind of whisper, but I'm still running a fever. Not ideal when teaching middle schoolers.

Anyway, I watched Oprah this afternoon. The episodes here are a few months behind the ones at home, so today's show was one I had read about on the internet: how to find the perfect bra and pair of jeans. I sat on the couch, fascinated.

Apparently somewhere between eight or nine (I can't remember which) out of 10 women is wearing the wrong bra size. Oprah had this veritable army of professional bra fitters to help out every woman in the audience. It seemed like every single woman there-average, every day women ranging in age from slightly younger than me to somewhere around sixty-was happy to be seen on national TV in her bra.

"Look at these!" a woman my mother's age exclaimed gleefully, pulling her pastel fleece up to reveal what was, admittedly, a very well-fitting bra.

These women weren't models. They were every size and shape, every age. Yet every single one of them was happily running in her bra, chatting about side boob and back fat with Oprah on television. It was like an extremely surreal edition of Girls Gone Wild.

As I sat and thought about it, though, I realized that this never really struck me as odd. It's Oprah! Who wouldn't go topless for Oprah?