I managed to knock my husband and two sons dumbfounded on Thanksgiving.

We had a blast. It was one of those holiday gatherings where even I was compelled to go outside and toss the ol' pigskin around. Truthfully, I have no idea why on earth this notion came upon me. I haven't done this since approximately 1973, when my brother and dad would humor me by letting me in on their game of catch for a few tosses until my Barbies beckoned me back into the house. Thus fearing potential embarrassment, I walked up to the group anyway and found a football sailing toward me. Apparently, my talents as a receiver are more convincing than I thought. My option was catch it or black eye, and I wisely chose to catch.

I did it! Now what? Four adults of unquestionably greater gridiron skills than I stared in my direction. I've got the ball in my hands, fingers gripping the laces, and some miraculous thing is expected of me - throwing it back. Were they really that far away when I arrived on the game? My throwing arm skills are limited to moving along with the elliptical handlebar at the gym, however, I have been lifting weights and I do swim a pretty tidy 450 - my confidence rises, I assume a Namathian backwards trot (Cripes! That hurts my knee - I hope this isn't a game of tackle!), and yowza! I let 'er fly!

In reality, they had to run for it (yes, towards me), but only a step or too. I distinctly heard 'ooohhs,' 'aaahhs,' and 'Hey! Go Mom!' Mike caught it handily, and my family performed endzone dances of adoration for my mad skillz. The honor continued as the ball was returned to me. Yikes! Didn't I really come out here just to see if they wanted to go for a walk with me? How did I get myself into this? Who was I kidding? I psyched myself out and firmly caught air as the ball slipped through my fingers, and mercifully missed my face.

I laughed it off and picked up the ball to throw it back. No pressure, right? I've done this before - ten seconds ago, in fact. I even managed a sort-of spiral on that one, too - surely I can repeat the odyssey.

Nope.

The ball went embarrassingly wobbly and vertical. Instantly, I knew what I had done wrong, I pushed the ball rather than throwing it. Years of my politically incorrect youth swam through my memories; I had certainly thrown that 'like a girl.' All five of us ran to center field for the ball. At least we were all laughing. I bent over to pick up the ball and hand it to Tyler, my intended target.

Coincidentally, we all bent over at the same time, and as we stood up, my three men were staring at the top of my head with mouths agape, expressions of mystified awe on their faces. My sole feminine comrade, (Rachel, Mike's girlfriend) remained silent. She's awesome. No laughter now except my own.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," replied my husband.

Obviously something was up and he knew better than to press the issue. I didn't like the way this felt. Mike and Ty were transfixed on the top of my head. Phil was looking, too, but clearly his expression indicated he wished this moment would just stop. Rachel either was a true sympathizer, or had no idea what was going on. Either way, she was very cool about it. The jig was up, and I wanted in on the joke.

"What?" I implored once again.

"Geez, Mom, you're really gray!"

Nonplussed, I replied, "I know. Remember? I told you I was going to stop coloring it?"

"Yeah, but Mom - you're like - really gray!"

"Yeah. She's grayer than me, isn't she?"

Yes, that last one's from my husband. Apparently in guy code, if one goes down that treacherous path, it's safe to follow. Thanks a lot, honey - whatever happened to solidarity on the parental front, here? It's a good thing he's rarely serious. Sarcasm covers so many social faux pas, you see.

I remember the first time I thought my parents looked noticeably older. It was when I came home from CU the summer after my sophomore year. Let's see, we're not even to final exam week of Mike's freshman year and Tyler's still a senior at Columbine. What a noble effort I've accomplished in surpassing my mother's eternal youth!

I breathe a sigh as my sons continue with supporting comments like:

"You should color it, Mom."

"Yeah, Mom, you look good when you color it," as we all retreated to our appointed positions on the field.

No comment from Rachel. I love her. She's a true sister/best friend if there ever was one.

The encounter really didn't faze me. It felt very much as if someone had noticed a scar on an arm usually covered by long sleeves. My gray is part of who I am. It doesn't hurt, it just is, and frankly, coloring it is a pain in the rear, and really quite drying.

Later that night, Mike returned home after finishing the holiday with Rachel's family, still blown away by witnessing the Thanksgiving Miracle of 2006: that his mother wasn't a young woman any more. I look at this as good news, really. My sons' sheer amazement at my pigmentally challenged follicular condition merely says "I've still got it, baby!" Now as for Phil, I can be thankful that he (usually) knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Now if I can only explain away this new crick in my back when I make this throwing motion - ouch!