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.

Barely Legal

As another school year is upon us I am back to the dorms for another go around with the American youth.  College has been a weird experience for me so far.  This will be my fourth semester in four years.  I know Dad, I’m going really slow, just give me a little while I’m getting there.

But is seems no matter how long I’ve been here or how much I try to progress, every single semester I am surrounded by nothing but 18 year olds.  At 22 ½ I should be feeling young and gleeful about my youth, but since I am basically the only person with a car whenever I’m playing chauffer I feel like I am a mother taking the neighborhood kids to soccer practice.  I spend most of the drive shouting things like “Put your seatbelts on!”  “Don’t touch the radio!”  “Roll up your window and put your whole body into the car!” “I swear I will never give you a ride again if one drop from you juice box spills onto my seat!”

Dating is tough when you are four or five years older than everybody you associate with.  I went on a date with an 18 year old and part of the conversation went as such.   She asked me what I was afraid of.  After thinking for a moment I said “I’m afraid of the government either getting too much or too little power.  If it had too much we could lose a lot of the freedoms that we enjoy, and if it had too little it could lead to a lot of anarchy and vigilantism.”  After I made this statement I got this awkward vibe from her that sent the clear message that this was not the kind of answer she was looking for, so I added “I’m also afraid of heights.”  “Oh” she said “I’m afraid of bees.”

The thing about 18 year olds is they have yet to learn to go without the luxuries that you have while living with your parents.  For example this summer I roomed with a kid named Joe who was straight out of high school.  Him and I a couple of other guys who lived in the apartment had been given some hot dogs.  We decided to capitalize on the opportunity by having a barbeque.  While shopping for supplies we passed through the bread aisle and Joe tossed a couple of bags of hot dog buns into our cart.  The rest of us were like “Joe what the heck are these for?”  Confused, Joe replied “The hot-dogs.” Angrily and somehow in unison we all yelled “Joe!  Do you know how much these cost?”  “It says 2.50.”  “Exactly Joe! What do you think we’re made of money? Go back and grab the 88 cent loaf of white bread.”  Joe, still confused said “For hot dogs?”  Even more frustrated we replied  “Yes Joe! You take the slice of bread, you put the hot dog in the bread, you fold it and you eat it. And for heaven’s sake don’t you dare come back with any ketchup.  We have plenty of Wendy’s packets left in the fridge.”

Joe also tried to wash his clothes with dish detergent instead of the liquid hand soap the rest of us used.  Crazy kid got bubbles everywhere.

Every day I spent with Joe was like watching a newborn lamb wobble through the dew-laden field of life. Here is a word for word conversation I had with Joe one night in the kitchen.

Joe:  Whose ‘Shake Well’ is this?

Isaac:  What?

Joe:  In the fridge, the carton that says ‘Shake Well’ on it.

Isaac:  That’s orange juice, ‘Shake Well’ is the instruction.

Joe:  Oh, well can I have some?

Isaac:  Not anymore.

Brett Favre Returns From Retirement: Signs With Utah Jazz

Michelle or not Michelle

When I get my mind set on doing something I can't think about anything else until I have accomplished what I've set out to accomplish. For example the other day after a Sunday night service at the church I had it pre-set in my mind that immediately after the service I needed to go to the university library and print off some papers that I needed for my first class Monday morning. After the service I went to grab my coat from the coat rack when a very attractive girl struck up a conversation with me. I was nice and polite and we bantered back and forth for a minute or two. But the whole time I was thinking “I've gotta get to the library and print off my papers.” After a short conversation I told her I had to go do something and she asked for my name. In return I asked for her name and she said it was Michelle. I said I hoped to see her around again sometime and headed for the library.
 
It was about the moment when the first paper popped out of the printer that I realized I had made a huge mistake. Here was this friendly and attractive girl who was obviously interested in me who I had just blown off to go and print off a few papers. I could have talked to her longer and just gotten up earlier in the morning and printed off my papers before class, or I could've at least asked for her phone number. But no, printing off three papers for botany took precedence above all else. I ran back to the church to see if she was still there. The church was locked and nobody was inside.
 
So ever since this happened I've been trying to find Michelle. But the problem is I only kind of remember what she looks like. I remember thinking she was attractive, she had light brownish hair and a lighter tone of white skin. But distinct facial characteristics are a blur.
 
So to help narrow down the search I've come up with this game called “Michelle or not Michelle.” The game is as simple as it sounds. Whenever I'm out and about I look at girls and decide whether they're Michelle or not. For most girls it's pretty easy. “Black girl, she's not Michelle. Hispanic, not Michelle. Red head not Michelle. President of the university, definitely not Michelle.”
 
But sometimes there are girls that might be Michelle so I have to stop and really look at them to figure out if they're Michelle. And sometimes I have the problem of having my thoughts become words that are said out loud. Like at Subway a couple of days ago I saw this girl that I thought might be Michelle. I looked her up and down for a moment and then shook my head and said “No” out loud and walked away. At the time this happened I didn't think anything was wrong with what had just transpired, but when I looked back on the experience I realized how terrible it must have been for that girl. Some guy walks up and starts analyzing you from head to toe. You would probably think “This guy is checking me out.” But then that guy shakes his head, says “No” and then walks away. What would you think? She was probably crushed!

So now I'm trying to find the girl from Subway so I can explain what happened and apologize. The only problem is I don't exactly remember what she looks like. So I've come up with this game called “Girl from Subway or not girl from Subway.”

This post was originally written December 2010