THE BIG BOY GYM

January 27, 2004 | 5:18pm

She looks at the machine that’s supposed to work one’s abs, then with the left side of her nose crinkled and her eyes halfway open with boredom she says, "I suggest you don’t use this machine unless you’re old and fat. What you should do is…" blah, blah, blah. She’s blut, fierce even, especially in those cute black two-toed ninja shoes.

However, this is actually the second time I’ve been humiliated at the gym today and I’m getting ahead of myself. It started an hour earlier when Merce (my fabulous gym partner) and I were burning the fat off our asses on the Fitness for Life treadmills upstairs. Of the three gyms located within five minutes from both of our houses, this location puts the cardio equipment in the best boy-watching area, elevated above of the crowd. From here we can laugh, talk trash, and sweat away our former selves.

In fact, we have a really good view of what I like to call The Big Boy Gym. The Big Boy Gym has all the free weights, dumbbells, and squat gear that all the really hot Marine-type boys use. I tend to stay on the Keiser equipment-which uses air compression for resistance-or any machine with a pulley system because with these, you don’t need much balance or control.

"Merce, I want to use The Big Boy Gym." I simple declare. He flatly states that it has the same kinds of things we use on our part of the gym, which makes me feel confident and more determined to try it out.
After working our back and chest we walk into The Big Boy Gym …

… and there’s no one there. No one cute anyway. There’s the pale guy who looks like Powder and he’s doing wrist curls, staring into the mirror with an I-want-to-jack-off-so-hard-right-here-right-now kinda look. Merce begins working out his left bicep determined to make it as big as his right one (although between you me, they look the same size).

The Big Boy Gym is massive, with a gargantuan stair well to my right that leads up to the cardio equipment. All around us is a wall of mirrors, and hundreds and hundreds of iron things racked up or stacked in nice tight shiny rows. I do two sets of fifteen bicep curls but cheat on the last set and finish at eight repetitions (reps). I suck, I note.

A tour guide walks down the stairs. His arrogant tone carries through the stillness of our area. Merce and I both roll our eyes. "… and we have three locations in North Phoenix … one in Arrowhead. But I don’t know where that is—I’m not from here … and we spend extra money on half weights, so if twenty pounds is to much, fifteen is perfect … "

What he’s saying is so absurd and corny. Who the hell cares about half-weights or gyms forty minutes away? Obviously, they don’t have a cool pie chart, like we do.

Merce and I roll our eyes again, he continues left arm lifting and I take a swig of water. Only, it’s one of those rare moments in life (or common if you’re me) where you fuck up doing something so brainless. Never mind the fact that I can out-put an 88-page magazine in a few days at work, create an eye-pleasing ad in a few minutes, or code a web page in mere seconds. I couldn’t for the life of me breath normally at that moment, I had just inhaled two mouthfuls of water. And all of it wanted to come back up and out through either my nose or mouth.

Well it would have, if I didn’t want to act all cool and shit. I knew I was going to cause a scene, but I couldn’t stop it. Everything slowed down, I dry heaved and ironically water seeped out, I didn’t spit, it just kinda rolled down the side of my mouth in a steady stream and onto the floor.

My only escape was the stairway, unless of course I wanted to bolt through the gym, past the machines, and into the lobby. Hell no! So I ran up the stairs, dry heaving, trying to expel the water from my lungs.

My heaves echoed through the room, and off the stairs into every direction. Everyone in eyesight was watching me. I could hear the tour guide’s voice fade and then stop all together.

Near the top of the stairs I have a major breakthrough. What some would dismiss as a pitiful hacking cough, I saw as a life sustaining necessity. My towel, which I must of have grabbed before I sprinted upstairs, was soaked in water but drowned out my conniption fit’s noise.

I look up and there’s a guy on the Stairmaster with a shit-I-think-this-dude-is-choking-to-death-why-the-fuck-is-here-up-here-and-dying-in-front-of-me kind of look.

Moments later, I walk down the stairs with all the dignity of a Miss USA contestant modeling her swimsuit; but I was being looked at like I was wearing a birthday suit.

I try to laugh it off, but deep down, I knew The Big Boy Gym wasn’t ready for me yet. Then I did laugh when I realized that Mr. Tour Guide probably didn’t get his new client. I can just see the happy couple reeling back in fear as they bolt to the door, never to return. But then again, Merce and I did join this gym even after we saw a guy shoot a snot rocket out of his left nostril. And that my friends, was just disgusting — my near death experience was nothing like it. Nope, not at all.