Everything's got an expiration date nowadays. Have you noticed? Foodstuffs, batteries, film, contraceptives -- each of them marked for an eventual demise. All things must pass from the earth, as John Locke once noted. Indeed our material goods are as precariously bound to the mortal coil as we are. Thanks to the miracles of science, we can pinpoint with marvelous accuracy when these products will become no longer useful to us, i.e. when they begin to curdle or putrefy.
I fear expiration dates, those heralds of impending doom.
The other day I ate a ready-made microwaveable pasta dish entitled, "It's Pasta Anytime." It had technically expired eight days prior to my consumption, but fortunately, it was pasta I could eat "Anytime." And I did not die. However, this incident has not served to alleviate my apprehension about products and their foretold expirations. I still leave a margin of about four days between when I'll stop drinking from a carton of milk and when its expiration actually occurs, superstitiously dreading to come too close to that date of destruction. The same applies to yogurt. My brain knows that I am foolhardy in this regard, but my heart applauds.
So we and our consumer goods share a common fate, that of indiscriminate oblivion. The difference, of course, is that we know more or less the exact date or span of dates during which our products will expire, while our own futures are far more uncertain. Granted, we may look at a person of advanced years and automatically think of an expiration date, i.e. "That old codger's got ten years max left in him." But what about a person of, say, college age? A potentially huge span of time awaits this youthful character, during which an infinite amount of factors affect how long it will be before our hypothetical lad or lassie permanently occupies a plot of earth in Sunnyvale. That person might live until 98 and then die peacefully in a urine-stained bed, or that person could step into the street at a wrong moment tomorrow and become part of the undercarriage of an 18-wheeler. That person could be felled by a mayonnaise-induced heart attack at age 46 or that person might be gunned down in a sidewalk altercation between an angry Lithuanian grocer and a charming-but-deadly Mexican femme fatale. We have no way of knowing whether we are on the top of fortune's wheel, or about to fall off to a lower spoke.
Some might argue that this ignorance can help to develop our sense of wonder at the world, of "enjoying life to the fullest because you never know how long you'll be on this earth" (Hallmark card inscription). But not I. In spite of my existential fear of expiration dates, I think it would be useful to have them for humans. Nothing ostentatious, of course -- perhaps just a very small marking on the underside of the left wrist. Permanent ink, inscribed by God (or insert creator's name here). Simple and straightforward: "Good until 7/18/2074."
Think of the uncertainty, the stomach-turning worry, the long-term doubt that would be erased from people's lives. We would know who among us will be the ones to stick it out and who will drop out in the third inning or so. No more of being fooled into thinking death is nearer than it really is because of seemingly fatal illnesses or hazardous situations. In fact, some people will find a new kind of freedom in knowing that they absolutely cannot die before a certain date and thus we may see an increase in participation in extreme sports and recreational suicide.
These handy expiration dates would also allow for smoother planning for that fateful day. You'd know not to pay the rent for next month and you won't have to buy next week's groceries -- you'll be dead! And you'd be sure to have your friends and loved ones gathered by your side during the allotted day of bucket-kicking; after all, you would send out fancy invitations at least a month beforehand.
Of course, there would be protestors and critics, not to mention nay-sayers and poo-pooers, just as there are whenever any radical new idea comes along. Some people just can't seem to step outside the frame. They might suggest that this expiration branding would be demoralizing for those with early forecasted dates of demise. But hey -- you win some, you lose some, and that's all part of playing the game, right? Save your griping and wait for the next life.
So the next time you find yourself chucking a product in accordance with its predicted expiration, take a moment to imagine how humankind could benefit from a similar system. No more ungodly mess of mortal fear and bewilderment, just an ordered procedure of savoring your apportioned days and checking out when it's time to check out. As for me, I'll do my best to conquer my dread of those tiny, prophetic numbers and find salvation in expirations.
