Jessica Harper Uncanceled

“And how much weight did you lose on this, er, Rumsfeld Diet?” I asked.

“We don’t weigh ourselves,” said the lady manning the stall. “We consider it counterproductive. We don’t measure our waists either. Or expect any kind of weight loss at all. Or even aim for it.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. Although I didn’t. 

I was standing in a dusty classroom at Truvy High School, near Savannah, which was hosting a taster session for the new batch of evening classes. The school’s claim to fame was that three former pupils had gone on to middle management positions in the local Pest Control Department.

“And this Rumsfeld,” I said, “is that by any chance the Mr Rumsfeld…?”

“Yes,” replied the no-nonsense woman who was here to try to shift some units, and by that I mean sell memberships, not lose weight, as she had already made clear. “It was invented as a radical weight-loss method by the late Donald Rumsfeld, former secretary of defense.”

“Oh, I didn’t know he was…”

“Overweight?”

“Dead,” I said.

“Yes, he died in 2021. Although he was quite trim at the time.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess. Can you tell me what the diet entails?”

“If I stood here and explained it to you, m’am, I would not be doing it justice.”

“I see. How about if you sit down?”

She didn’t smile. There was no time for humor in the Rumsfeld Diet.

“Hey, how’s it going?” said my best friend April, who had appeared beside me, hopefully to rescue me.

“Great. Just finding out about the Rumsfeld diet.” I took a leaflet from the table and made a run for it. The woman’s body-mass index issues would surely prevent her from giving chase. “Seen any courses you like?” I asked April.

“I quite fancy Name That Battleship, but it clashes with Know Your Espadrilles.”

“I thought you were an expert on espadrilles.”

“So did I, but the lady at the stand said it’s a fast-moving world and there’s always something new to learn. I also liked the sound of Remember Them As They Were: Taxidermy 101.”

“Oh. Are you thinking of poor Fluffy?”

“Yes. He’s not dead but he has been looking a pit peaky lately. What sort of thing are you looking for?” 

“Hmm, I don’t know.” I squinted at the brochure: Make Good Choices: A Guide to Adult Education in Savannah. “Maybe something that falls between Karate for Vegans and ‘master air conditioning technology’.”

“Karate? If it’s combat you’re after, I recommend Vigilantism For Fun and Profit.”

“Oh my gosh, I’d forgotten you took that class.”

“I made so many citizen’s arrests that they named a waiting room after me at the police station. Well, the cavity search room anyway.”

“Hmmm, I want something that doesn’t require physical effort,” I said. “I liked the look of Do A Mexican Accent Without Being Offensive.”

We wandered past a stand being overseen by a man with headphones and a map. “Air Traffic Control Your Way, ladies. Direct airplanes from your living room. Safe and fun.”

I flashed him a smile and hurried along.

“That can’t be legal,” I said.

“I wouldn’t mind having a go at that,” said April. “How hard can it be to land traffic. ‘Do land’, ‘Don’t land’, ‘Runway six, please’ Easy.”

“Hey look, An Introduction to Medieval Food. Banquet like it’s 1546.”

A man dressed as King Henry VIII was waving a chicken drumstick at us and laughing merrily.

“Why’s he going ho ho ho?” said April.

“I think he’s confusing Henry VIII with Santa Claus.”

“Ladies, feast ye eyes upon the platters of meat.” He did indeed have a miraculous display of food: hams, chicken, beef, sizzling platters of vegetables and goblets of ale.

“I’m vegan,” said April.

“Pah!” he said. “Behead the vegan!”

“Careful,” I cautioned her. “Remember what happened to his six wives.”

We moved away swiflty before he could get medieval on us.

“I don’t know, do I really want to commit to something one night a week?” I pondered.

“You can always drop out. I dropped out of Perform Your Own Surgical Procedures. Which in hindsight was a mistake because I missed the sterilisation lesson. That’s six weeks in hospital I’m never getting back. Oh, before I forget: you have to go through to the hall. The tango instructor is to die for. Hot, sexy and very South American. We got up close and personal.”

“Ooh, what’s his name?”

“Colin.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, I thought it was unusual, too. But he swears he’s Argentine. Scots-Argentine anyway.”

“I need a drink before I do the tango. Let’s grab some vino collapso.” We retired to the canteen where they were selling plastic cups of wine so small that I half fancied drinking them like shots. I bought six and sat down with April.

“Tell all,” I said. As a long-time married person any news from a real live dater was always exciting.

“So, I joined that dating site I told you about? On The Shelf? Tagline: ‘One Last Chance at Love’.”

“Ouch. Are you sure it’s not for the over eighties?”

“Hmm, now you mention it the guys do look rather old. I just thought sitting down was how people posed in their profile pics these days. Anyway, I’ve got a date booked for Thursday.”

“Good work, girl. What’s his name?” I feared she had attracted the attentions of a far older man.

“Herb.”

“Oh. Do you have a picture of him?”

She reluctantly delved into her phone and then turned it round for me.

“Ohhh,” I said, not knowing what to say. “He’s clearly very useful with his hands. I wonder if he installed the stairlift himself. And they can fix cataracts these days, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hmm, maybe it is the wrong website. I’ll postpone the date.”

“Don’t postpone it too long, he might not have long left.”

“Jessica!”

“Sorry. Look, April, I’m excited you’re back on the dating scene but you can do better than a man who wears a cap that says Sponsored by Zimmer.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? I just suddenly decided I was over Bobby and was ready to start dating again.” Bobby was April’s ex-husband. Nice guy but lacking something. He wasn’t the kind who could match April’s joie de vivre.

“Well, I am pleased that you are ready to start dating. So that is why I’m going to keep a friendly eye on you to make sure you don’t go off down the wrong path. And if I overstep the mark you can tell me to back off, or words to that effect.”

“Deal.” She sighed and looked down at the brochure again. “So what are you looking for?”

“Oh, you know. Anything to get me out the house mid-week.”

“Really, Jess?” 

“Yes, really. Wait, are you suggesting I’m looking for something more than what Savannah night school on the surface has to offer?”

“Well, you have been buying those self-help books recently: Men Are From Aldi, Women Are From Lidl; Drop A Dress Size In a Month; Drop a Shoe Size in Two Months; Men Who Hate To Love Women and The Women Who Hate to Love Them; and Change Your Life (and Your Hair) in 30 Days?”

“You’re right. Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis.”

“I thought only men had those.”

“Not in this era of equal opportunities, surely? If I want a mid-life crisis I’m darned well going to have one. Maybe this night school thing isn’t really about me wanting to learn Belgian.”

“You mean it’s to fulfil a deeply buried need that has long been suppressed as you devoted yourself to the twin demands of mom slash wife and successful career woman?”

“Hmmm yes, something like that.” As usual, April was spot on.

“You’re right, Jess. Together we will both work out what we want. But we need to give it time.” She knocked back the last of the wines (wine? wines?) and stood up. “In the meantime, follow me to the hall. I’m not done with Colin.”

And off we went.

By the way, that class turned out to be Karate for Vegas, not Karate for Vegans. Which, if you think about it, is probably more useful.