The Lion and Witch in Isaac's Wardrobe

I am not sure I’m ready to get married, but I could really use a stylist.  I was picking out an outfit for a job interview a couple of weeks ago and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out which shirts matched which pants.  I kept wondering “does my blue shirt clash with my blue jeans or does it compliment them? Is it possible to clash with blue jeans?  Is it possible to compliment them?  Brett Favre looks good in blue jeans. Maybe I should tell them at the interview that I played in the NFL?”

Until recently all of my life I’ve felt that how I dressed didn’t really matter.  I remember my junior year in high school my mom gave me 50 bucks to go back to school shopping.  She told me I should use the money to go pick out a new outfit. “Mom,” I said “I’m a boy in high school, I don’t wear outfits, I wear t-shirts.”  I ended up just pocketing the money and never going shopping.

But now that I think of it, the boys in high school that did wear outfits got significantly more attention from the ladies.  I think there was a Taylor Swift song about that. How did it go? “He wears outfits I wear t-shirts. He’s always matching and I look like a homeless street preacher.  Dreamin’ bout the day when you wake up and find that the outfit guy was gay the whole time…”  Something like that.

Both in high school and now in college I’ve served on student councils that put on the activities.  And both then and now whenever we have a meeting to plan a dance we first pick out the date, hire a D.J, and reserve the room.  After that is done all of the guys are always “Well, meeting adjourned.”  But the girls are always “Wait! We haven’t decided the most important part!”  What in the world could be more important than hiring the D.J. and reserving the ballroom? We wonder.  “Hello!”  They say as they look at us as if we all have a brain the size of a pea.  “We need to pick a theme so we know how to decorate and know what to wear!”  Girls pick out their outfits based on the theme?  I don’t care whether it’s a 50’s sock hop or an 80’s neon dance or hill-billy hootin’ n’ hollerin’ hay ride I am going to wear the exact same thing to every dance.  I will wear blue jeans with that one shirt that I have that’s nice enough to look like I dressed up a little but cheap enough that if it gets kind of sweaty while I am jumping around it’s not a big deal.  And as far as decorations go we will have dollar store balloons which will be blown up by the person on the committee with the least experience.  Unless that person happens to be me, in which case there will be no decorations.

So to bring this entry full circle, whenever I am asked what I look for in a girl I simply say that my only criteria is that she has to be able to match/accessorize men’s clothing.  I know other people will look for things like compatibility, shared beliefs and attractiveness.  Not me.  In fact I take this so seriously that when I go to pick up a date I usually bring an assortment of men’s clothing with me so I can judge her skills.  “Before we hop in the car I was just wondering if I could get your opinion about how this tie matches this suit jacket.” 

“Why is your trunk full of old clothes?  And why is there a homeless street preacher sitting in the back seat?” 

“Don’t worry about it, just answer the question.”

Allegory of Agony: How Isaac Got Ripped

I had been going to the weight room in my dorms a few evenings a week for about a month.  I was trying to get back into the shape I was in when I was playing high school sports.  I was preparing to do the bench press when I heard a “psst” noise from across the room.  I looked around trying to find the source.  I saw a dark shady looking fellow with bulging biceps motion for me to go talk to him.  Trying not to draw any attention to us I crept over to where he was sitting.  “You trying to work on your chest?”  He asked in a hushed voice.  “Yeah” I responded.  “I figured I’d just do some reps on the bench press.”  “No man, if you’re looking to a ripped chest you need to try some of these.”  He motioned to a nearby machine.  “What are they?”  I asked.  “They’re called ‘fly’s,’ the whole football team is doing ‘em.”  “Really?”  “Yeah.”  “How do they work?”  “I’ll show you.”  He did a few fly’s on the big fly machine and then handed the handles to me and said “Go ahead, give it a shot.”  I hesitated. “I don’t know man, I’ve heard about weightlifting machines like this.  They say that they…”  “Do you want to get ripped or not?”  He interrupted.  I gave in and did a few reps.  I liked the way it felt.  I warm burning sensation shot through body.  I could almost hear the tear of the individual muscle strands cry out as they snapped under the newfound strain.  I did more and more reps.  I lifted until I couldn’t lift anymore.

Tired I headed up to my room and collapsed on my bed.

In the early morning I awoke for class.  As I reached for the alarm clock my arm and body cried out agony.  “What the heck happened last night?”  I thought.  “Oh yeah, fly’s.”  I couldn’t concentrate in class.  My professor’s voices were as the muffled sounds of people talking on the poolside when you are under water.  All I could think of was my aching body.  “I knew not to try that stupid machine!”  I cursed myself “I’m never lifting weights again.”

After my day on campus was over I was walking back to dorm and passed by the weight room.  Several hours had passed and I was feeling a little better.  As I walked past I paused and looked in the window.  “I shouldn’t.”  I said.  I looked at my watch, back at the weight room and thought “I guess I could head in there for a few minutes.”

He was there again.  He spotted me and said “I knew you’d be back, everybody comes back.”  “Just once more man.”  I said.  “Then I’m done.”  He introduced me to another machine.  I felt that same burning sensation in my body.  I liked it.

The next morning was the same, sore, dazed, and full of regret.  “I’m never doing that again” I promised myself.  But by the time that evening came there I was, torturing my body in the weight room.  And then it happened again the next day, and the next.  Soon I was using the same machines but the burning sensation was weaker than it had been.  I started using more machines and more methods to get that feeling back.  I could never get enough.  My grades were plummeting.  I soon stopped going to class altogether so I could spend more time in the weight room.

My friends pulled me aside and told me they were worried about me, they hadn’t been seeing me around anymore.  “I’m fine.” I promised them “I’ve just been really busy with schoolwork.”  They said they knew I had pulled out of my classes.  “I didn’t drop out!  I just changed my schedule that’s all.  Don’t worry about it.”  “Isaac” they said “Your muscles are exploding out of control. We know you have a problem, let us help you, we love you!”  “If you loved me you’d just let me live my life the way I want!”  I snapped back at them.

But they were right, despite my bitter jealousy and anger I knew in my heart they were right.  I couldn’t quit lifting, I couldn’t quit working out.  My body longed for the break of the sweat and the burn of the flesh.  My muscles could never be big enough, never.