I Was Afraid to Wear a Crop Top During Yoga—Here’s What Happened When I Did

One of the most pressing questions while getting dressed for yoga: to crop top or not?

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(Photo: RDNE Stock project | Pexels)

I’m rummaging through my yoga drawer, looking for an outfit to wear when I spot it lurking underneath all my other workout tanks. One look at this piece of attire and I’m suddenly spending another day in the shadow of a most pressing question: Am I going to wear a crop top to yoga class?

I stand there, considering. I can almost imagine showing my midriff. I even bought this cute crop tank from Beyond Yoga on sale, just in case the day ever comes that I could channel the courage to wear it. It’s been almost a year and I still haven’t. Unlike the coverage of my crop top, my mental spiral is lengthy.

There was a time when I would’ve thrown on the crop top without diving deep into a rabbit hole of thoughts, looked in the mirror, and thought, “I look great!” or “I feel great, and anyone who has a problem with my belly can tell it to the hand!” (I realize this expression is a throwback to the 1990s, which is the last time I wore belly-baring tops. This explains a lot about my hesitation.)

Just when I’m about to pull the crop top from the drawer, a barrage of philosophical questions pummels me:

• “I wouldn’t want to make any other students uncomfortable with my flesh reveal, or imply in any way that yoga requires the wearing of crop tops.”
• “On the other hand, could a crop top, like yoga itself, serve as a celebration of the body? It’s like saying, ‘Look how yoga has helped me get comfortable with my own body, which very much does not have a six pack.’”
• “Could my crop-top choice be liberating proof that you don’t have to dress a certain way at 40-something, or would it make others think that I’m trying to come across as younger than I am? That I have, in some fundamental way, refused to accept the impermanence of the outer shell of my being—something that yoga was supposed to help with?

Lost in thought and almost running late for class, I realize that my inquiries have less to do with me and everything to do with what others think of me. Maybe a better question is, “How will I feel if I wear the crop top to yoga?” I grab a full-length tank for yoga, close the draw, and take a few days to ponder it.

I eventually decide to take the crop top for a trial spin during a home practice. I immediately feel vulnerable, so I’m glad I’m alone. As I stand in front of the mirror, it seems to declare, “I’m ready for fun!” It’s hard to take myself or my practice seriously in it. On the other hand, don’t I take myself way too seriously most of the time? Why not try light-hearted on for size?

As I move from Mountain Pose into standing sidebends, I’m increasingly aware of my belly—but not judgmentally or critically as I’d imagined. The gentle touch of the air reminds me where my midsection is in space. Where I usually stand with my belly pressed forward, my newfound awareness prompts me to adjust my posture so I’m standing more upright. I lower down to my mat. In Tabletop I’m much more aware of my core than usual and am careful not to let my belly dip toward the floor so much. This is good, I think.

I happily Sun Salute my way down into Baby Cobra Pose, where I discover something less good: my stomach starts sticking to my grippy mat. I roll over, and the skin on my lower back sticks to the mat, too. This is unpleasant, as is the squelching sound when I peel myself up to sit. I was so concerned about the aesthetics and supposed ethics of wearing a crop top during yoga, I never considered the potential for physical discomfort—let alone skin-to-mat adhesion.

Changing after practice, I catch a glimpse of myself again in the mirror. The yoga mat patterns imprinted on my lower back look like some sort of skin rash.

Still, I appreciated the experience more than I thought I would. I don’t feel entirely ready to wear my crop top out of the house, but I’m not ready to ditch it, either. Even when it’s in my drawer, the crop top represents the possibility of a more carefree me who embraces herself exactly as she is—and a kind world that does, too.