Yesterday, I enjoyed a ladies luncheon with all the CA wives at a quaint little restaurant in Oklahoma City’s “Bricktown” district. We had a praline and caramel cake for dessert that was TO DIE FOR. My workout in the hotel fitness room that morning hardly came close to compensating for its caloric evilness.
And speaking of workouts, I had a hilarious encounter in the fitness room this morning.
I had the whole place to myself, so I was blasting the wall-mounted TV on CNN to catch up on the the vice presidential debate I missed while traveling (don’t even get me started) when, I swear, Woody Allen walked in.
Okay, so it probably wasn’t Woody because he was too young, but it HAD to be his son, and Woody Jr. captured zero DNA from his mother Soon Yi.
From the scrawny clumsy build, to the unruly red comb-over, to the black-rimmed glasses, to the nasal voice and social awkwardness he exuded as he said, “Hello there” and nodded at me, it was Woody all over.
I couldn’t help but stare. Luckily the room was wall-to-wall mirrors so I could stare indirectly.
He got on a treadmill and cranked it to the highest speed, then grabbed the handles in a death grip and jumped on. I thought he was going to hit that sucker and immediately be thrown across the room and crash a wall of mirrors to the ground. Somehow he managed to stay on, but his stride was instantly alternating leap splits and his body was horizontal to the floor as he hung on for dear life. In a matter of minutes his face was bright red and spurting sweat. He was gasping for air and grunting.
Was this a joke?
Was I being punked?
Tex, did you set this up?
I didn’t know if I should help him or laugh my guts out.
I decided to laugh my guts out.
I put my head in my sweaty sleeve and had a good chortle by the free weights.
It was the best ab workout I’ve ever had.
If we don’t sell a single painting tomorrow night at the show, it will have been worth it to come all the way to the Oklahoma City Marriott just to see Woody’s workout.