Friday, February 4, 2011


We’re all familiar with the term ‘jump the shark’ to describe the moment when a television show has overstayed its welcome. It’s usually accompanied by a stupid plot line. Think Cosmo Kramer or the singing Brady Brunch. My favorite example comes from the Cosby Show and its constantly rotating collection of Rudys or Rudyesque characters. As the real gal got older and fatter and thus less loveable she was replaced by a cuter, younger version. Then that one got older and fatter. Good thing the show didn’t go on much longer or they’d have had to borrow Eddie from Fraser.

Shark Jumping transcends television, and I’ve seen examples all around me. We have sartorial shark jumping, like when I realized no one under thirty wears cuffed jeans, and no one under fifty would be seen dead in pastel capris. Or, Décor shark jumping, when you buy art to match the sofa. But the most painful by far is jumping the Love Shark. That’s the moment when you’ve outlived a relationship. It happened to Paul and me in France. By the end, even my walk irritated him. And listening to him breathe was pure torture. Like a rain stick from hell.

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