Expiration dates have outlived their usefulness

People who grew up in the Depression -- a vanishing cohort whose wisdom and perspective we will keenly miss -- have a different approach to “expiration dates” from their boomer offspring.

You, a sensible person who does not want to wake up at 3 a.m. with a flaming tornado in his belly: “I think this cheese is expired.”

Grandma, who saw the farm’s entire supply of soil blow away, replaced by the husks of dead locusts: “Shave off the fur, you’ll be fine.”

You: “Shave it? With an electric razor?”

Grandma: “Land sakes, no, we didn’t have any electric razors. We had to use Father’s straight-edge. Fetch me a strop, and we’ll have that cheese good as new.”

Perhaps you err on the side of the “Best by” date. I do. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve dashed out of bed at 11:59 p.m. and moved the chicken from fridge to freezer because I remembered the chicken had a “use or freeze by” date that expired at midnight. You lean against the fridge, panting with relief: Whew! Too close.

I understand the concept of “expired,” but that doesn’t mean I extend it to gas-station car wash tickets. First of all, there’s something creepy about gas-station car washes. The door opens like a hungry mouth, you drive forward, the door closes and the ravenous machinery starts up. It seems to be preparing you for some ritual sacrifice. When the door opens and you’re allowed to leave, it’s like, “We let you live. This time. Go warn the others.”

Her ticket was one day over the date. She asked the clerk if she might use it anyway. The stone-souled gas station clerk was unmoved. She hadn’t used it in time. “Whose fault is that?” he said. Glad to see we’re holding the lines on the things that really matter.

I know, I know -- the whole order of things, the delicate scaffolding of the market economy, would collapse if people expected to claim a wash whenever the mood struck them. But perhaps an allowance can be made. Just this once? Can you find it in your heart to let a lass love her car? Doesn’t even have to be hot wax. Tepid wax is fine.

Perhaps the solution is to replace the expiration date with another term we’ve come to love: “Best by.” The code will work past that date, but the water might be a bit gray, the pressure not enough to blast all the wheelwell grot, the big brushes will lash back and forth -- but without much enthusiasm. You paid for Platinum and you got Gold.

If you bought the most basic wash and used the code past the Best by date, a guy comes out with a bucket of communal windshield-wash fluid and one of those sponge-on-a-stick things, gives the car a desultory swab, moves the suds around with a push broom, then waves a hair dryer at you for a minute.

Two weeks expired, a guy comes out with Windex and paper towels. After that, they just throw you a wad of flushable wipes. As Grandma said when she sheared the fromage, it’s better than nothing.