Powerpants Gym

I don't know much about bodybuilders. When I was in high school, I worked at a women's apparel shop that was located across the way in an outdoor mall from a Powerhouse Gym. You think I would have used my perfect vantage point to compile a case study of men who wear giant weight belts and the moves that motivate them, or ask them about what drives them to spend endless hours bulking up and measuring their guns at the expense of their neck length, but really, all I did was spend two years wanting to sit down with them and discuss their pants. It was the height of the unfortunate multicolored cotton wrestling pants trend, and although I'm sure this fashion statement served its purpose — the pants were roomy, probably easy to get into and out of through the forgiving elastic hems, and no doubt made for pleasant crouching — I never understood the blind embracing of an item of clothing so unsightly by a group of people singularly dedicated to perfecting their appearance. I knew the fad had gotten completely out of hand when a boyfriend of mine showed up at my house wearing a pair of turquoise ones. He was about 5-foot-6, 125 pounds, and I don't think had worked out since his tragic jai alai accident some years previously. Anyway, it was not good.

In Hebrew High School, in the presence of one of our congregation's rabbis, I was sitting at a table in the synagogue's library with some classmates while one showed us photos of her boyfriend at his most recent bodybuilding competition. It made me slightly uncomfortable, as you never want to know what a guy in your Practical Law class looks like in a Speedo. Anyway, the conversation veered toward the topic of steroids. "Yeah, he looks awesome," my classmate said, "but it makes your balls the size of marbles."

The rabbi got up and walked away.

In any case, I never bought a ticket for that train, but I've always had a joyful fascination with people who spend their whole lives focused on training their bodies and testing them to the absolute limits of human endurance. I love watching marathons, triathlons, documentaries about people climbing Mt. Everest, and the Olympics. Bodybuilders? I just never got into bodybuilders.

I did, however, enjoy two of them last weekend.

Not like that. Dirty.

One provided a viewing of an Unexpected Bodybuilder Accessory during dinner. He was sitting at a table behind Josh, drinking shots with his girlfriend and a hanger-on who we assumed was his brother, as deduced by the awkward conversation between the girlfriend and the second guy when the bodybuilder went to the bathroom. Watching him eat was a test of endurance itself, as all conversation between the three stopped as he polished off his plate, 98 percent of hs girlfriend's, and stared longingly at his brother's — all in a ten-minute period. I didn't mean to stare, but I did. And then it caught my eye.

"Hey," I whispered to Josh. "Is that a tennis bracelet?"

"Where?"

"Behind you. Bodybuilder. Shhh. Careful."

Josh casually looked around the restaurant and caught sight of the jewelry. "That's his watch."

"No, other wrist. He IS wearing a diamond watch. But look at his right wrist. I think that's a tennis bracelet."

"Pinkie rings, too."

I looked at the pinkie rings. "They sure are dainty for a man of his size."

He did his casual sweep again. "Jesus! THAT'S tennis bracelet? It's huge!"

"It looks like a watch band without the watch."

"It's not a tennis bracelet. It's too big. It's, like, four rows."

It was massive and showy and very, very expensive. This led us to a 15-minute conversation about what we thought he did for a living, aside from travel to Mr. Universe pageants across our great land. (Possible occupations: something in construction, or management of one of his father's "gentlemen's clubs." We are mean.)

Bodybuilder #2 was spotted on a train. I didn't notice him at first, except for noticing that he was big, of course. After about a half-hour, I heard him laughing, an amused chuckle over and over and over again, the filled-out shoulders of his hoodie vibrating with glee. I looked over his shoulder, and on his iPod was Unexpected Bodybuilder Entertainment Source: He was watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons. One right after the other. Remember the Golidlocks one? Yep, that one. He thought that one was hilarious. I don't know why I was so surprised, because it fed into every stereotype ever created about bodybuilders. But I was stunned and amused and transfixed by this guy and his videos.

"That guy is so high," Josh said.

"Bugs Bunny cartoons are funny," I said.

Bugs did something nefarious and violent to Daffy Duck. The guy burst into hysterics. Knee-slapping hysterics.

Josh looked at me. "Yeah, but that guy is high."

Amusing note: Sitting on the train two rows behind us was Fred Armisen, an actual human funny person. "I hope Armisen uses that guy in a future Saturday Night Live skit," I said to Josh, in re: the bodybuilder. "That guy is material."