You know you’re a Concealed Weapons Carrier if: You start your day selecting what clothes do not print. While shopping for a new belt, you select one by what goes best with your holster. 2:30, 3:00, 4:00 are not times of the day. OWB, IWB are very different internet terms than LOL. The most expensive part of your dress attire is that custom made leather holster you wear. Instead of family photos in your wallet you have concealed carry permits. Family members are tired of you asking “can you see my handgun under this shirt?” $200 is to much to spend for a pair of shoes but your holster was made by a 100 year old Native American in New Mexico, which is made out of a now extinct species, and cost more than you make a month. Baggy pants are not only a young mans style but it is the only way you can manage to get your IWB holster in your pants. You laugh at any full size auto under .45 ACP but carry a $1,000 9mm because it is really really small. Bending over to tie your shoes is a hard task but you can manage to contort you body in to unimaginable ways to see how your new gun feels while wearing it. It takes you 15 minutes to pick which one of your carry guns would be perfect to wear on your latest outing. As soon as you get home you clean lint off your gun but have not run the sweeper on the carpet in a month. If you ever asked your significant other “does this 1911 make me look fat?” A major goal of yours it to get every CCW permit from every state that issue out of state permits. Your hip has a cramp because you slept the wrong way on your holster last night. You have trouble remembering you cell phone number but you know every concealed carry law from every state. At the end of the day, your back right hip is boned to the grips in a manner that would have made Milt Sparks proud. You forgot how to reach for things over your head with your right hand, even if you're standing in the kitchen in your underwear. When standing up after eating, you habitually do a back and to the right shirt tug. When hugging someone, you shoot your arms under theirs in a race for who's got the waist position. You sell the idea of mice in the office to cover for your own occasional squeaking.