Not that I’m looking forward to being dead, but maybe a deceased status would at least allow me to put an end to my lifelong anxiety — about doing, saying, wearing the right thing.
But OMG. Maybe not? For real, there’s a new service — an “after-life messaging platform” — that lets you prerecord messages, videos, or audio that are sent out to loved ones after you’ve “passed.” (The Cambridge-based “Eternal Applications” runs the platform, but more on this in a moment.)
In other words, dead though you may be, your obligations are not over.
The messages can be timed to go out for special occasions or dates for the next 50 years! As if it’s not hard enough saying the right thing when you KNOW what’s happening with the recipient of your well wishes, imagine trying to do it 10 years — or half a century — in advance.
Congratulations on the occasion of your wedding. Or maybe it’s your divorce! Or you’ve decided to stay single — good or you! Or perhaps you’re dead, too, in which case my estate deserves a partial refund. I’ll call customer service now and start fighting.
But do people even want to hear from me once I’m no longer around to shame them into responding? I can’t say with confidence that my next of kin read my texts now, when there may actually be information they need (Mark, if you see this, my flight gets in at 10 a.m. tomorrow).
Imagine how my messages will land when I’m gone. Oh God, here she is again, still deceased, with another one of her maudlin videos.
Should I feel sorry for my future deceased self that my own children, and, should they exist, my grandchildren and their offspring, are multitasking while listening to my voice memos from beyond? Really? You’re on the treadmill while I drone on in the background?
And what’s the dress code? Desert chic? Beach formal? Fancy ranch? With my luck, for once in my life I’ll be on trend when I make my recordings, but then I won’t die for decades, and by then my absurdly baggy pants and crop top will be out of style and not yet enjoying vintage status.
What look am I even going for? Business casual? I’m not doing that now and I actually go to an office. Athleisure? But if I’m so vibrant, why am I dead? I can’t even figure out what to wear to meet a friend for brunch. How am I supposed to choose my final outfit? Or outfits plural?
If I’m getting the “premium” package — $149 for 10 messages with 100 unique recipients — do I need a different outfit for each one?
Wait — this is making me realize I have even bigger issues than wardrobe. Do 100 people even want to hear from me? Have I made enough friends? Maybe I should start playing pickleball. They seem like a crowd that would treat outreach from the dead with the reverence it deserves.
The company behind this service is called “Eternal Applications,” but “Eternal Complications” might have been more accurate. Consider this from their OWN press release: “It is often challenging to have difficult conversations face to face . . . [t]he Eternal Applications platform lets users craft their message exactly as they want it in a comfortable environment.”
OK, the italics were added by me, but do you see what’s going on here? The service is a power move. A dagger to the heart that can never be pulled out. For as little as $49, if you go for the basic package, you get the last word. No coming to an understanding about things. Just me on a screen speaking my truth. Imagine the tension leading up to the delivery of each message. Oh, God, what is she going to say this time? I never liked your dog.
The loss of a loved one, and the loss of oneself, is so sad, of course. But the website aims to make it all seem so simple. “Create your message in four easy steps,” it instructs. But guess what step one is? I kid you not: Create a username and password. OK, I’m out. Death should at least free you from password hell. But here it is now, chasing you to the grave.
Eternal Applications is based right here in Cambridge, and it’s nice to shop local, even in death. But I’m thinking I should skip the whole thing and go for the DIY budget option. No outreach. The only people who will hear from the late me are those who email me and get an automated response: Beth has stepped away from her desk.
Beth Teitell can be reached at beth.teitell@globe.com. Follow her @bethteitell.