
I hate it because gravity is not kind. When I lift my legs up and align them over my hips, everything sliiiiiiiides dowwwwwwwwn and forms two solid rolls of fat. And of course, with my chin pressed to my chest, I can do nothing but glare at my fat rolls for a good five minutes. It's like the final showdown scene in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, except without Clint Eastwood and his cigar. I expect a dramatic swell of music as I stare down my blubber.
The irony is, yoga geeks say this posture is supposed to stimulate the thyroid gland and boost metabolism. All it makes me want to do is put on my baggy sweat pants and Google "fat festishism." Or "bulimia."