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. And thus, the following conversation took place:



So we went into her closet and she hunted out the illusive Thighmaster that had been haunting my thoughts for roughly half my life.



I thought the damn thing was pretty fucking fantastic. Plus, it seemed simple enough to use. However, having experience with supposedly simple things actually being much harder than what they appear, I asked for her to show me how to use it. No way in hell was I just going to plop my pretty little ass down right in front of her just to make a fool of myself. So she sat in a chair and demonstrated that it worked...exactly how I thought it did.

So I sat down to try my luck. Hey, if my mother could do it, then I sure as hell could do it too. RIGHT?



It was a little harder than I thought it would be, so I decided I needed to put on my serious face and go at it the way I did when I used to play the violin and would practice for 3+ hours a day.





Alas, it was not meant to be.





Yeah, I was pretty fucking mortified. My mother had just done about twenty reps with the damn thing when she was demonstrating how to use it.



I figured that maybe my thighs were weak. I mean really. My thighs are certainly NOT the best part of my body and I'm quite modest so they're usually covered up and I rarely try to improve them. Clearly, a change of position was necessary to show off my physical prowess. I asked mom if there were any other ways a Thighmaster could be used.

So, she showed me a few positions. (Now that is something I never thought I'd say about my mom.)







I tried out every possible way that the stupid Thighmaster could be used by one person. Unfortunately, I'm not very fit.





It was at this point, that my mother started to laugh. At me. So hard that she stopped breathing and ended up on the floor. I had half a mind to shove her Thighmaster down her throat in an attempt to shut her up, but I figured that would probably just bring me more grief. So I let her laugh. Which she did. Until she was red in the face and had tears streaming from her eyes and was imitating a seizure on the floor.

Eventually, I got sick of hearing her laugh at me so I asked her to please stop because she was hurting my feelings.

Surprisingly, she did.

Unsurprisingly, she immediately began mocking my inability to master the Thighmaster.

It was at this point, that I literally crawled out of her room in shame.



And that, ladies/gentlemen/non-binaries, is what happens about 98% of the time when my mother and I are in a room together. (Although we do switch roles so that I am sometimes the tormentor and she the tormentee. Regardless, it always ends in tears.)

The only good part of this entire ordeal? I have a sense of humor. So as soon as I had dragged my weak little noodle-body out of her room, I cracked up and was soon in tears myself.

THE MORAL OF THIS STORY: Avoid all weird workout equipment you find in your mother's closet. It is bound to bring you buckets of shame, bundles of tears, and a stitch in your side from laughing too hard.

THE END.