On Being Blissfully Endowed

First appeared August 26, 2012 on Mrs. G's fabulous and now defunct blog Derfwad Manor.

When Mrs. G. asked me if I would be interested in writing a few guests posts for her blog, I...well...squealed out loud.

I know. I’m sorry.

But really, I was beyond excited. I have my own blog, but lately I’ve been yearning to take on some racier subjects. Here was my chance! I’d get mouthy. I’d get opinionated! I’d take on politics and racists and maybe throw a four-letter word or two around! I was leaving my “raised in Texas where if you can’t say something nice about someone, you bless their little hearts and vote them into the Governorship” mojo behind.

Only…

Well…

It turns out that what I really want to talk about is gravity.

And my breasts.

(Which would totally work as a band name, if the band played only sad and depressing songs about regret and hindsight and misspent youth. “Gravity and the Double D’s.”)

See, here's the thing: I have a big chest. I've ALWAYS had a big chest, even when the rest of me wasn't quite so large, which (I'm not kidding about this) meant that, in college, I had to cut off all my hair and ring my eyes with black-eyeliner to get any of my professors to take me seriously. Apparently, if you had big boobs in the College of Communications at the University of Texas in the mid-80's, it was the same as announcing "you can actually see Russia from the land here in Alaska." I mean, NO ONE is going to take you seriously after that.

Anyway.

I am well-endowed.

For most of my life, I was also a runner and an aerobics instructor and combined both of those things out on the dance floor, where I spent most of my single adulthood. I never actually put anyone’s eye out, but you get the picture.

Fast forward twenty-something years, twenty-something pounds and a debilitating foot/mobility issue (all that activity took its toll—and not just on my breasts) and here I am, age 47, trying to reclaim my body by participating in a fairly challenging Power Yoga program.

And, y’all, I’m finding that the hardest part of yoga has nothing to do with focusing on my third eye, or being surrounded by former competitive gymnasts, or trying to touch my toes with my head or whatever.

It’s dealing with my Downward Facing Breasts.

And even THEY are not really the problem.

The REAL problem is that I can’t find suitable yoga tops. And by “suitable,” I mean ones that don’t show an acre of cleavage and/or threaten to dump my breasts out into the open.

I think I’ve ordered them all now. From every manufacturer. I have yet to find one that doesn’t threaten a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions. I tried just throwing a T-shirt on over the yoga top, but that came with its own set of issues, namely: as soon as I settled into “plow pose” the shirt would ride up and threaten to smother me.

I tried out some other options in my bedroom.

Life Vest Yoga

This seemed like a good idea because I already sweat so much that this might keep me afloat in the event of a flood. Unfortunately, it rides up in Downward Facing Dog.

Turtleneck Yoga

So incredibly hating this whole idea. I could barely put this sweater on for the photo because it was so hot. Women of my age should never, ever attempt Turtleneck Yoga. A hot flash would KILL US DEAD.

Plus, it rode up and tried to smother me in forearm stand. And, too, black sweaters seem to attract orange cats --I put this sweater on and my cat Edward came running.

Marching band yoga

I knew the marching band coat wasn't going to work, because it's HEAVY, but I think it's so funny that my husband still HAS IT after all of these years, that I tried it on. It was better than the sweater (ANYTHING WOULD BE BETTER THAN THE SWEATER,) but still limited the range of motion in backbend so I couldn't get my arms fully underneath me. (Also, could not stop humming "The Ride of the Valkyries," which isn't very yogic.)

I don't know. I'm still looking for a solution. If there are other big-bosomed yogis out there, maybe we could form some sort of group that advocated for appropriate yoga tops.

Barb Cooper is 47, the mother of two girls, a Texas-to-New York transplant, and a writer by nature and training. She struggles to live in her head, in her body and in this world, all at the same time. It's not as easy as you'd think. Find her blog at http://www.sothethingisblog.blogspot.com