Mitt Romney Tries to Eat Rick Perry

The Elegance of Collegiate Dinning

They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.  So by that definition I must be the most insane person in the world when it comes to dinner time. 

What will happen is around 9:30 (yes I eat dinner at 9:30 or later.  College: Where your lifetime of obesity begins) my body will notify me that it is hungry.  I will head to the pantry and notice that the only thing I have is a jar of peanut butter and an empty bag of “Apple Dapples.”  I will then open the fridge only to find several empty bottles of my roommate’s fruit juice.  After failing there I will go to the cupboards and see that I have several jars of Ragu tomato sauce and boxes of spaghetti sticks.  I will think “I guess I could make spaghetti.”  But then I will remember that I don’t have any pots to cook the spaghetti in.  Disappointed I will head back to my room.

But then about 15 minutes later my body will be like “Hello! You still didn’t eat anything!”  And I will be like “But body, there wasn’t any food, I checked!”  And body will be like “Yea, but that was 15 minutes ago, just imagine how much food could be there now!”  And me, thinking with the same rational mind-set of a second grade boy who is trying to get a girl to like him by throwing rocks at her, head back to the kitchen to see what I can find. 

After repeating this cycle for about an hour I eventually find myself dipping uncooked spaghetti sticks into Ragu sauce.

It’s no secret that college students skip a lot of meals and when they do eat it’s mainly crap.  But there has always been something that has bugged me.  Occasionally there will be a nice established adult who will be concerned about the health and nutrition of a college student they know.  They will decide that they want to help us out by buying us some food.  But what do they buy every single time? RAMEN! RAMEN FREAKIN’ NOODLES!  “Wow, why thank you Mrs. Jenkins for giving me the one type of food I can actually afford.  That was so nice of you.  And an entire box full of it too, wow.  What is that like three dollars’ worth of food?  How graciously generous of you to supply me with enough sodium to inflict me and my posterity with Type 2 Diabetes.”

I honestly don’t know what they’re thinking when they get that for us.  “Oh look here at the bottom of the shelf! It’s Ramen Noodles, Isaac loves Ramen Noodles!  He eats them all the time!”  I EAT THEM BECAUSE I HAVE TO NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO!

Luckily for me this year there are some girls who live down the hall who enjoy cooking.  I kept an eye on them for the first several days until I kind of got a feel for their schedule.  That way I can “happen to be walking by” about the time they are starting to eat.  “Wow!  I just happened to be passing by and I noticed that something smelled absolutely delicious in here!  What is that?  Tortellini no way!  And it looks almost as good as the girls who made it!” (Followed by a huge sincere smile)  Two minutes later I walk into my room eating a plateful of tortellini.  “Where in the world do you keep getting all of this food?”  My roommate asks.  In full maturity I respond “Your mom” and then ignore him.

But I think I am kind of starting to like one of the girls of whom I get dinner from.  I’m not exactly sure how to get her to like me back.  Maybe I’ll just throw some rocks at her.

The Greatest Victory of Isaac's Life

I was reading the school newspaper and I saw a little notice that said the newspaper was having a 90’s trivia contest that day in its office.  Considering myself an expert on all things 90’s I made my way up to the newspaper’s office to enter.  I entered and walked up to the 30 something year old secretary who was pre-occupied with a copy of ’17 Magazine’.  After waiting for a moment I said “Excuse me, I’m here to enter the trivia contest.”  “You’re here for what?”  The secretary responded.  “The trivia contest. I read in your paper that you were having one.”  “Nancy!”  She screams to somebody hiding in a back office.  “You know anything about a trivia contest?”  “No!”  Nancy yells back.  “Ask Tom!”  The secretary turns to a boy about 8 feet away who was staring at a computer screen with a look on his face like he wanted nothing more than to die.  The conversation that ensued was so golden I have to put it in script format in order to catch it in its full glory.

Secretary:  (Yelling at the same volume she yelled at Nancy) Tom!  (She pauses and for some unknown reason waits for a response)  Tom!  (She yells again as if he didn’t hear her the first time.)

Tom: What? (He mumbles without even glancing away from the computer.) 

Secretary:  Know anything about a trivia contest?

Tom:  I hung it on the wall behind your desk.

Secretary:  What do you mean? 

Tom:  The question for the trivia contest is written on the paper that is hanging on the wall behind your desk.

Secretary:  So what do I do with it? 

Tom:  You ask him the question.

Secretary:  Which one? 

Tom:  The one that’s written on the paper. 

Secretary:  Which paper?

Tom:  The one hanging on the wall behind your desk.

If I was Tom I would never glance away from the computer either.

To make a long story short, the question was “What year did the Soviet Union fall?”  I know a ton about the 90’s but I didn’t know this one.  So I took an educated guess and said 1991, which turned out to be correct.  There are a lot of other things I could tell you a lot about 1991.  It was the year that Nirvana’s “Nevermind” came out and ended the reign of Michael Jackson and the rest of 80’s pop from the top of the music charts.  It was the year Bill Clinton launched his presidential campaign.  And it was also the year my crap-in-pants ratio started to decline (although I must note it did not stop completely until Clinton’s re-election.)

But the best part of all of this is for my lucky guess I ended up winning a free iPod touch!  I know right?  I was expecting some Laffy Taffy or something.  Those suckers gave me a freakin’ iPod touch!  The new kind too!  It was amazing.  When I tell people I won the iPod I feel as if I sound like those wall comments that you get on facebook when your friend’s profiles have been hacked.

“Hey bud! How’vya been!  Just wanted to let you know I just received a brand new iPod touch absolutely free!  I saw the offer and I thought ‘what could it hurt?’ But it actually worked!  I think they’re only giving out a limited amount so you better hurry and get yours! Just click here http://thisisobviouslynotyourfiendfromthirdgradeimeanseriouslywhotalkstotheirfriendslikethishowstupiddotheythinkweare?//

Due to my parents being a weird cross-breed between Mormon and Amish I was never exposed to the latest technological advances growing up. So holding this iPod for the first time was a revelatory experience.  When I held it in my hands I said to myself the same two things a new father says the first time he holds his child.  “This is a miracle.”  And  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

 My roommates told me that the first few days I had it I sounded exactly like a senior citizen would if they were using it. They said they overheard me saying things like “Well I’ll be! This son of gun has internet access.” “Golly!  Whad’ya know? You can download an entire book onto this thing!”

After I had had the iPod a few days I was telling my friend about it and he asked if he could see it.  I handed it to him and he scrolled through it for a few seconds and then looked up at me and said “You don’t have any songs on here.”  I responded “Does it do that?”

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.