Follow the women in athletic wear

The California sunshine proves no impediment to your spectral form as you drift along Melrose Avenue, that most fashionable thoroughfare of the modern metropolis. The mortal realm bustles about you in blissful ignorance—motor carriages of sleek design gliding past, young persons tapping frantically at peculiar illuminated rectangles in their palms.

What a feast for the discerning eye! The contemporary female form parades before you in garments that would have caused mass fainting spells at Almack's Assembly Rooms. These 'yoga pants' as you've come to understand them—good heavens, what marvels of modern textile engineering! They cling with an enthusiasm that borders on the patriotic.

You observe a procession of candidates along the avenue. A jogger in electric blue athletic garments bounds past with admirable vigor. Two young ladies emerge from an establishment proclaiming itself 'SoulCycle'—whatever spiritual velocipede worship that might entail—both clad in matching black exercise costumes. A street vendor sells what appears to be pressed vegetable potions from a cart.

Then—by Jove!—your attention fixes upon a vision of considerable merit. She emerges from a boutique bearing shopping bags emblazoned with incomprehensible brand nomenclature, and your practiced eye immediately discerns quality. A young woman of perhaps twenty-five summers, with long dark hair cascading past her shoulders, possessed of what can only be described as a posterior of quite extraordinary proportions. Nature has been uncommonly generous, and the tight-fitting garments of dove grey she sports leave absolutely nothing to speculation.

She pauses at the corner, extracting one of those rectangular devices from her diminutive handbag. The sunlight catches her profile—olive complexion, strong features, a certain Mediterranean cast to her countenance. She appears to be consulting the device with some concentration, her brow furrowed.

You waste not a moment. With the practiced ease of one who has performed this ethereal maneuver countless times since your unfortunate tumble from the balustrade, you glide forward through the afternoon air and slip into the young woman's form like a gentleman donning his favorite smoking jacket.

The transition is instantaneous. One moment you are observing, the next you are installed within the vessel, her consciousness retreating into blessed oblivion as your own Victorian sensibilities take the helm. Good Lord! The sensation is always remarkable, but this—this is something rather special indeed.

"By Jove!" you exclaim aloud in her voice, though the words carry your own distinctive timbre and inflection. A passing gentleman in peculiar abbreviated trousers gives you a startled glance. "What remarkable endowments this young lady possesses!"

You execute a slow pivot, craning her neck to peer backward, and the sight that greets you would have made the poets of your era weep with inadequacy. The grey garments—these 'leggings' as the modern world terms them—cling with the devotion of a loyal spaniel, outlining curves that would have required at least three layers of crinolines to achieve in your day, yet here exist through nature's generosity alone.

"Madam," you address the absent consciousness of your host, "you have been blessed by Providence itself. These hindquarters are nothing short of magnificent!"

You spot your reflection in the glass window of the boutique and immediately stride closer for proper inspection. The posterior in question presents itself in profile—round, full, and possessed of a pertness that defies the laws of gravity as you understood them. You execute a small bounce on the balls of her feet, watching with scientific interest as the relevant portions respond with a delightful jiggle.

"Splendid! Absolutely splendid!" You place her hands upon the buttocks in question, giving them an appreciative squeeze. "Firm yet yielding, substantial yet shapely. One could compose sonnets!"

A young woman passing by with a small dog stops and stares at you with considerable alarm.

"I say!" you address her cheerfully, your host's hands still firmly clasping her own posterior. "Have you ever witnessed such magnificence? The classical sculptors would have wept! This is what Michelangelo was attempting with his David, only he rather missed the mark by focusing on the wrong gender entirely!"

You fumble momentarily with the peculiar rectangular contraption still clutched in your host's hand, turning it this way and that. The thing illuminates at your touch, displaying a bewildering array of colorful symbols that would have seemed like Egyptian hieroglyphics to your Victorian sensibilities.

"Ah!" you exclaim with triumph as you accidentally activate the camera function. The device now shows your host's face staring back at you from the glass surface. "So this is one of those 'selfie' apparatuses the modern world is so infatuated with! Quite ingenious, really. Rather like having a personal portrait artist who works at the speed of thought."

You execute a practiced pivot, extending your host's arm behind you at what you judge to be the optimal angle. The young woman with the dog—still standing nearby with an expression of mounting concern—watches as you contort Sofia's body into various poses.

"The key, you see," you announce to no one in particular, "is to capture the true magnificence of the curve. The interplay of light and shadow! The classical proportions!" You arch your host's back slightly, tilting the device downward. "One must consider the composition as though one were commissioning a proper oil painting for the Royal Academy."

You tap the circular button on the screen repeatedly, and the device makes a series of peculiar clicking sounds. Each press captures another image—Sofia's posterior displayed in grey leggings from various angles, her face visible in some shots wearing an expression of intense concentration mixed with your own unmistakable Victorian pomposity.

"Marvelous! Simply marvelous!" You review your handiwork, swiping through the images with growing satisfaction. "Look at this one—the lighting is particularly favorable! And this angle! One can truly appreciate the fullness, the remarkable pertness!"

The woman with the dog finally speaks up, her voice tight with worry. "Hey, um, are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?"

You glance up from your photographic review, beaming at her with Sofia's face. "My dear lady, I assure you I have never been better! I am simply documenting this extraordinary specimen of feminine form for posterity. Surely you can appreciate the artistic merit?"

She backs away slowly, pulling her small dog closer to her legs. "Right. Okay. I'm just gonna... go."

"Philistine," you mutter, returning your attention to the photographs. "No appreciation for the finer things."