This is a post with an incomplete narrative arc and no point.

Packed gym. I should have the discipline to go in the morning when it’s empty, but I’m late to bed late to rise so I was there during rush hour.

Someone was using the squat rack, which makes me as angry as when no one is using the squat rack. Skinny guy doing strict overhead presses, in the squat rack, with the barbell. I can’t complain because I do the same thing–I prefer the barbell over dumbbells and the machines. When skinny guy is done strict pressing, slightly-less-skinny guy comes in to do … shallow, 65-pound squats. I just stand next to the squat rack, doing nothing, with a blank, unfocused stare at the floor, like an ice-pick killer, until I can get in there for my 5×5 at 225.

Later, while bench pressing, two guys come in, one wearing brown driving moccasins, and the other wearing brown penny loafers. It took all my strength not to ask which was Skip and which was Trip. At least they were doing something like actual work and weren’t wrapped in baby fat like 65-pound-curtsy guy.

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