Girls in Yoga: Popping a major 3rd eye boner

Girls in Yoga.

Boy, are there girls in Yoga. The Kind of dark girls with short, tight workout shorts emblazoned with 3 stripes descending their hips; letting me know they're trendy and brand-conscience.

The kind of tanned, toned girls you would see on college campuses, but you'd never know. With olive skin that makes you guess that they are half Italian and half Jewish.
With shiny, thick hair the color of 8:30 PM, pulled back tightly and either spurting from the back of their heads like a confused volcano or wrapped into a less-than-taught bun, resembling the type of brain cactus you can buy from Home Depot.

Our Yoga is performed in a hot room and as the girls warm-up their tiny Adidas shorts and white sports bras become translucent, like delicate membranes; a second skin to protect their real skin from parasitic eyes.

As they warm up beads of sweat race down their bodies like they themselves race to class in places like USC, vanilla soy latte in-tow.
Early-bird beads begin first descending at a steady pace, because they have time. Descending their necks and arms.
Then, the late-comer beads race down their spines, bent on catching up, like they race to French class in places like Madison, Wisconsin or Tempe, Arizona; where I pretended to go to school.

The sweet sweat, which surely tastes of sugar water, scales their spines, surpasses the smalls of their backs, where it is swallowed by the exposed cracks of their glorious asses, like sideways smiles, slurping the last bit of hard lemonade from their red, plastic cups in places like Ann Arbor, Michigan or Tempe, Arizona, where I pretended to attend college.

The girls in my life are tall and airy and aristocratic.

The girls in yoga are shorter, more compact and rooted in reality, with thick muscular stems. They look like they could crack a walnut between their thighs. God, I would love to be that walnut, lying before my momentary obsession, crack-shelled and exposed, as I would most certainly, eventually be. Offering my pulp-self because that is all I have left to offer.