A zippily ephemeral little tale, half satiric, half serious (romance/identity crisis)--narrated by Manhattan-acerbic Jan Derby, the justifiably irritable wife of TV sports-newscaster Frank (whom she met at a Norman-Mailer-for-mayor party). Frank, you see, is a super-selfish super-pig: his idea of entertaining-at-home is having some athletes in to exchange ""broad-banging"" stories over ribs and Coors. So Jan is turned off jocks. . . till she meets basketball star Nat Spaeth, sensitive and funny and sexy. She teaches him to cook (for a TV morning-show appearance). She watches him play. He demands a rendezvous, the inevitable happens, but both lovers remain cautious. Then, however, when Jan catches hubby attempting adultery during an ecology party (Jan's been tagging along with a Robert Redford-ish couple who are into natural air, food, and Native Americans), she walks out. And so it's off to the Redford type's Colorado snow retreat--where Jan resists a gentle pass from the movie star himself, has some outdoor thrills, and decides that she can leave Frank, love Nat, and not lose herself. Piffle--but, especially in the nicely nasty opening chapters, Whedon (Girl of the Golden West, 1973) supplies enough hip zingers and ironic mutters to keep this very slim novel coasting painlessly along.