Once upon a time when I was a wee young'n, I was going through my parent's closet and discovered a frightening contraption. At the time, my little girl mind imagined it to be a horrible torture device of some kind.

I had no idea just how right was.

As I got to be older, I figured out that it was in fact, not a torture device, but antique exercise equipment from the days of yore. It was a Thighmaster. (Okay, it was actually pretty recent and it actually was a torture device. We can't all be right all the time.)

For those of you who don't know what a Thighmaster is, observe:



For several years I cackled inwardly at the thought of my mother toning her thigh muscles with such a hilarious piece of equipment. Eventually though, my gleeful imaginings of my mother in neon-colored work out wear was overcome by my overwhelming desire to kick some Thighmaster ass. I didn't care how stupid the damn thing looked. I had to try it.

( So, I asked her if I could use it. )