Throwing My Weight Around : * An unwarlike woman is transformed into a bloodthirsty blimp to show who’s the boss in the sumo ring.

Even though I’m hardly the aggressive type, I couldn’t wait to wrestle complete strangers till their butts hit the floor.

What inspired me to new lows? It’s all part of something called sumo basho. Invented by the Miller Brewing Co., the sport is a modified sumo wrestling experience for laymen and, er, women. In Japan, the wrestlers beef up (mostly on pricey Kobe steak) to their personal maximum (around 400 to 500 pounds) and train in an honorable tradition dating back thousands of years.

I took a shortcut. Though a Miller beer belly probably wouldn’t hurt, it isn’t required for sumo basho because special “suits” insulated with layers of padding protect and inflate average Joes and Janes who want to give it a go.

Locally, basho matches are staged at Bobby McGee’s in Burbank. Anyone game enough to try it can not only do so for free, but they can compete for in-house coupons and dinners. I tell friends what I’m up to, and their advisories are varied.

“Take plenty of Advil.”

“How many beers will you down before you do it?”

“What time should I be there?”

In fact, having supporters to cheer you on--and possibly drive you to the hospital (just kidding)--makes for a more convivial creaming of your opponent.

When I arrive, husband in tow, I check in with the disc jockey, who promptly hands me a waiver absolving Miller of all liability should I be injured. Immune to liability jargon since I am married to a lawyer, I simply ask if anyone’s ever gotten hurt. He says no, so I sign and wait for him to call me.

The waiver unnerves me a teensy bit, so I sip a beer. Employees lay padded mats on the wooden dance floor. Then they bring out the suits, bronze vinyl numbers that cover layers of foam with amusing visual enhancements like Fabio-esque pectorals and an attached thong-style belt, complete with Lite beer logo, similar in style to the belts authentic--and mostly naked--sumo wrestlers wear.

At Bobby McGee’s, the whole thing is G-rated, not G-stringy. The suits, available in only a few hundred bars around the country, cost about $1,000 each. (Only the kid in “Blank Check” could afford one of his own.) Personally, I’d rather have an Armani suit. I wonder if the irony of the Lite beer on the gigantic sumo belt is lost on everyone but me as I prepare to visually gain about 300 pounds.

Finally they call my name, and I head down to the mats in my stocking feet. My “coach” (the guy who helps me up when I inevitably belly-flop) tells me to lie on my stomach and climb into the suit, feet first. Initially, I get both legs stuck in one sumo leg and struggle to pull them out. I re-enter and succeed, then slip my arms into the suit’s cavernous sleeves. The legs are so bulky my feet cannot touch the ground, so I feel like a bloated rolling pin.

Coach adheres the Velcro strips on the back of the suit and hoists me up. He slips on some padded mitts and a football helmet covered with lacquered hair made to look like a Japanese wig. First I had no neck, now I can hardly see. Friends and spouse are laughing hysterically as they gawk at me. I can’t dwell on how funny I look, though--I came to win!

I can barely bend my elbows and knees but Coach tells me not to worry. He says I can win easily if I use the force of my belly to slam my opponent and simply step out of the way if she comes at me.

Sounds easy enough. My opponent is a petite, demure Generation X-er. I’ve been psyching myself up for this for days, but she seems to have been coerced at the last minute by friends. Anyway, this boomer is ready to kick her butt, as Tonya Harding would say.

The club’s disc jockey, the basho emcee, explains the point system and lays down the rules, like no hitting above the shoulders. Good thing, too--I don’t want my mascara smeared.

The first time I bash the X-er, she falls flat on her face. I’m kind of worried--is she all right?--but the bloodthirsty crowd shouts, “Body slam!” That means I’m supposed to throw my padded belly onto hers--on purpose! I worry about hurling my own poundage onto her tiny frame, but the crowd demands aggression. Tossing etiquette and concern for my fellow woman aside, I wallop her, and the crowd roars. Our coaches pick us up, and we regroup for Round 2.

By now, my adrenaline is rushing, and my husband and friends are nearly collapsed with laughter. Though my opponent gets me good a couple of times, I fall but once. I bash her twice more and win.

Victorious, I climb out of the suit, perspiring slightly, but thrilled with the experience. X-er temporarily loses an earring, which is promptly recovered. My moment of glory is over far too soon but I revel in the thrill of it.

I would basho again in a heartbeat. But I will remember a few key ingredients for a truly successful evening:

* Wear flexible, lightweight clothing if you want to wrestle.

* Skip jewelry, or take it off before a match. Bring plenty of friends to cheer you on--or possibly take you on. Friends who bash each other seem to get more out of the experience.

* Most of all, make sure you talk a buddy into doing it so you can watch. My pals and hubby say it’s twice as funny to watch a friend basho than it is to watch a complete stranger. They should know.

After seeing pictures of myself, only now can I appreciate how ridiculous I looked. One is a possible Christmas card, another a keeper for the fridge and a sure-fire diet incentive if there ever was one.

WHERE AND WHEN

What: Sumo basho at Bobby McGee’s, 107 S. 1st St., Burbank.

Hours: Tuesdays and Sundays. Sign-ups begin at 8 p.m., but the action doesn’t usually start until about 9.

Price: Free.

Call: (818) 841-1935.