Ah. Yoga.

For humiliatingly-transformative experiences in yoga class, “falling out of a pose” ranks right up there with “farting during final relaxation.”  Last yoga class, I fell out of halasana (“The Plow”).  I blame myself.  No one with a rack as substantial as mine should attempt to shift their tits outside of the normal range of motion WITHOUT THE ASSISTANCE OF A QUALITY SPORTS BRA.  But, nooooo. I had to see if I could pull it off. So, against my better judgment and ignoring my body’s vocal protesting (my left knee popped when I extended my legs beyond a 90-degree angle), I gruntingly shifted into halasana. And for the first five seconds, I was good!  Oh, but then, my impossibly gorgeous/flexible/sweet instructor reminded me to BREEEEAAATTTHHHE.

“Fuck!” I growled into my breasts, which were resting on the lower half of my face.  The situation was so absurd that I got the giggles.  Down came my legs, hitting the mat underneath them with a pathetic slap-thud. OW.  So much for enlightenment using the pathway of the physical!

Oh, well.  On the upside, I’m totally going to try a modified version of halasana in bed.  If I can find a way to keep my lower back supported, it could be a VERY fun encounter!