My wife Mary Jane and I have a tradition of taking evening walks around our neighborhood. We used to frequent a nearby Asian supermarket, which has since closed down, leaving us with a Planet Fitness in its place.

We had contemplated becoming members, especially with our health plan's discount, but during one of our walks, we encountered a familiar face yet again.

We had seen him previously, but I never considered talking to him. Could he be odd? He greeted us with a friendly “good evening, young lovers,” and mentioned how he enjoyed observing the “worker-outers,” jotting down notes and making jokes.

“Don’t tell me I can’t be a critic,” he insisted. “That’s for inside. I’m out here.”

He found it puzzling that the gym had such large windows if what transpired inside was so “hush-hush.”

The pandemic allowed him to grow his hair “long and luscious,” but now, with his mask hiding his beard, he often gets mistaken for a woman. “I get called ‘ma’am’ all the time,” he chuckled.

Last night, he consented to share his notebook filled with “criticisms” and “judgments.” He laughed off the idea of not judging. “We’re human. We prejudge all the time, right? It’s instinctual!”

The local man, residing just across the street from Wawa, preferred to remain anonymous. He didn’t want to be labeled a “loser” with “nothing better to do than lurk at people working out.” Sporting a yellow shirt and a distinctive black-and-white headband labeled “Hair-Ties for Men,” he had his hair tied back in what he referred to as a “man-tail.”

“A man-bun? No, but a man-tail? Absolutely!” he said proudly.

I mentioned that I was a writer and asked if I could document his story. He agreed, but only if I kept his identity concealed.

Here's what he shared from his notes:

1. “Does that guy in tight black shorts and a too-small white shirt really think he’s working out? He must be fifty-five. He flaunts ‘his package’ like he’s auditioning for Magic Mike! He wanders from machine to machine, as if just touching them counts. And you know what’s hilarious? He wipes his forehead with a white towel constantly, but I bet it’s not even sweaty—just some overpriced body wash from The Dollar Store.”
2. “How about that woman in the yellow and black leopard-print yoga pants? She’s clearly not wearing shapewear or underwear; every blemish on her rear end is visible, along with her ‘frontage.’ Seriously, how old is she? I don’t want to shame anyone, but would I make people sick if I strutted around in a Speedo? And she’s been on that machine for half an hour, lifting what? Ten pounds?”
3. “Then there’s this kid—gotta give him credit for trying to be healthy. He’s got the right look, with brand-new sneakers. I bet his mom irons his gym clothes. He’s new here, and he speeds from machine to machine like he’s in a race. But he does like ten reps of low weights, wipes the machines down, and he’s the ‘Around the Gym in an Hour’ type.”
4. “That tall woman on the treadmill? I swear she runs twenty miles a night. Her form is flawless, and every five minutes, she stops to hydrate with an expensive-looking water bottle. She’s almost too perfect—like a robot—never talking to anyone, especially not to that guy in the ‘junk’ trunks.”
5. “I love that guy who comes in a few times a week. His wife drops him off, and I can't help but wonder where she goes. By the looks of her, she probably needs fitness more than he does. He’s on the treadmill, but can he walk any slower? Why not just join everyone else walking in the neighborhood? He wipes his forehead and dabs his armpits every minute. I get more of a workout just watching him! And his earbuds keep falling out, and the treadmill tosses them under the machines, forcing him to crawl to retrieve them. Why not invest in decent headphones? And his phone keeps slipping out of his baggy shorts, and let me tell you, when he bends over, that’s a whole paragraph’s worth of critique!”
6. “Those two guys in the corner with the weights? They look like they belong somewhere else. Those crop tops reveal their abs and toned arms, and I bet they’re slathering themselves with oil like Achilles before hitting the gym. One spots the other while they bench press each other. But they don’t bother cleaning the benches afterward. I’m not sure if they’re showing off or if those muscles come with a side of workout grease.”
7. “Then there’s the middle-aged woman in yellow on the bike. She’s a hoot! Sometimes I swear I can hear her singing from outside. The fitness instructor in purple often has to tap her shoulder to shush her. She’s got a love for Motown, and when Smokey Robinson hits her soul, she just can’t stop. And her expressions! You’d think she’s living the whole song. Her oversized Bluetooth headphones leave indents in her permed hair when she’s done. It’s the only machine she uses, and she rides like it’s a leisurely ‘Sunday in the Park with George.’”
8. “That guy over there? He’s the worst! He tries to chat with everyone. At least the ‘junk in the trunk’ guy is quiet. I get it—he’s trying to connect, but is the gym really the place to mingle? He samples machines like he’s at a buffet, and those sneakers look like they’re from two decades ago. I guess the gym’s low fees attract all sorts. Was that too harsh? Well, I’m a critic, after all.”
9. “And what about that new worker? He’s young and handsome, but he looks so bored. I bet he’s struggling to find a job after college. Maybe he majored in physical education and dreams of being a teacher, blowing a whistle while watching kids jog. I’ve seen him rearranging displays for ages, glued to his phone. I wonder what he’s looking at. I just enjoy people-watching.”
10. “I know I’m probably boring you with all this, but I walk by here every night and circle back. I don’t just sit with a beer and a beach chair, staring at gym-goers. I may seem odd, but it’s not that obvious, right? Every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, there’s this one woman I should probably capitalize: Woman. The Model Woman. She has a figure that could’ve been sculpted by Michelangelo. It’s Monday, and she won’t be here until tomorrow, but she has a routine and knows what she’s doing. She’s around my age, but in far better shape. In about an hour, she hits fifteen machines with various weights and is always polite. I love her smile, and I don’t see a ring on her finger. Some women wear fake rings just to deter guys like me, right?”

Did The Critic think about joining Planet Fitness to get to know her? He laughed, rubbing his neck to highlight his pandemic weight gain, then patted his belly, “like a bowl full of jelly.” “I’m not sure. Online dating hasn’t gone well for me.”

Curious, I asked why. “One woman sent me ‘pubis’ pics, and that was just weird. Another demanded I swear fidelity to Jesus Christ. And there was one who brought her dad along for ‘protection.’”

By now, my wife was seated on the curb, engrossed in her phone. Was she frustrated with my fascination with The Planet Fitness Critic?

“Hey Mary Jane, do you think the three of us could join? We might help our friend here with his love life. I know you’re great, but I could stand to lose a few pounds.”

She shook her head. “Nope, I think you’ve found yourself a new buddy,” she replied. “Why don’t you two team up as a comedy duo? You’re practically the same person.”

As the evening wore on, the man in purple approached, inquiring about “our problem.” Could we please leave?

“We’re getting critiques from inside about this peeping Tom by the window,” he remarked.

The Critic in yellow smiled. “I didn’t realize critics were only allowed inside. I thought it was an outside job.”

With that, we parted ways, but we’d likely encounter him again during our nightly strolls. After ten minutes, I turned back to see The Critic once more, peering through the window.

My wife sighed. Should we consider a different walking route? “I shudder to think of what he’s writing about us. He probably thinks we’re the freaks.”

She was right. Writers do have a reputation for being odd. You never know when one might write about you, and suddenly, you find yourself featured in an essay or article.

“Do you mind if I jot down notes when we get home? I need to transcribe this conversation.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “That means I can indulge in a psycho-thriller on Netflix. Not that I need Netflix for that—there are enough psychos everywhere.”

The roll of her eyes communicated everything. God, I love her.

Thank you for reading! Audio version available here. Follow me on Medium at Walter Bowne.