Dude rolls into the Plum Street Y sporting his own 7 foot 45 pound bar like it was a javelin and he’s an ancient warrior. Everyone has their own way of signaling toughness I guess. I just bench 125 pounds in five sets of five to let everyone know I’m not effing around.

Guess the Y’s eight or nine bars just don’t feel right? The mind whirls. Does he take his own eggs to his favorite breakfast place? His own range balls to the driving range? His own violin to the symphony concert? Just how far does his self sufficiency go?

Same day I refrain from telling another strange denizen that his too many to count tats looked just plain awful. Just in case he’s like the elderly bloke next to me with 255 pounds on the bar.

Better safe than sorry.