The meat of my chest is a scary subject

I have always been a bit well endowed in the frontal region. It is part of my family make up and I have always just dealt with it. The only time I was modest in boobage was in college when I danced in the college dance company for a few years. The combination of dance classes and rehearsals often added up to five or six hours a day. The result was a pretty svelte Heather and a very aerodynamic set of B cups; I was in heaven. Fast forward 17 years, three pregnancies and a schedule that simply does not accommodate six hour dance sessions and my girls are big, dare I say enormously hefty. I don’t even know what letter, or letters, my chest measures into these days. I just know that pairs of small babies could comfortably snuggle into the cups.
Why am I harping on my boobs? Well, I have recently returned to yoga. Hot yoga. And unless you are a hot yoga follower, the following rant might be hugely boring for you. But I will blather on anyway because I have to get it out. See, hot yoga not only involves a room heated beyond the reason of what a human should willingly endure, but it involves a lot of twisting and turning both on and off the mat. And my girls? They don’t fly with all that interference. No. In the floor series I have a hard time lying flat on my sweaty mat with my sweaty stomach to the floor. Quite simply, I become like a sort of meaty teeter totter as I try to find a comfortable position where my breasts are not squished in my face or tucked under my arm pits. Then when we have to imitate a flying bird by thrusting our feet, arms and upper bodies in the air while we balance on our pubis? Gravity is a fierce foe there. Tonight I noticed in about 2/3 of the positions that my chest simply got in the way of me being a beautiful yogi, every time I tried to hold a position there were my hooters peeking around, sliding under or popping out.
I really don’t know what to do about them. I am planning to see my doctor to ask him if the constant pain in my neck and shoulders might be attributed to my girls. And if so, perhaps my insurance will pay for me to have them sculpted into something more suitable to human proportions. Otherwise? Perhaps duct tape might be the answer.