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!