Autumn, What the Fuck?!

This is what my cat just exclaimed. It seems like scant weeks ago we were brushing out his underfur so that he could better endure the 14 hours of sunning he was doing on the back deck. Now, I have my woodstove blazing and he's alternately dopey on the couch, comatose on the floor. Now and then he raises his fine, half-breed Siamese head and rustily belts out a "What the fuck happened to summer?" before collapsing once again into drowsy.

I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.

Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.

I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).

No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.

But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.

Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.

We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.

The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!

Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.

''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''

She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...

Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.

Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.

Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.

My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.

Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.

It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!

--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte