Branding all old people “cool” is a disservice to the cool and the uncool, for it lumps old people together as a homogenous group and makes tragic assumptions catering to the efficiency of institutionalized senior care.
I want there to be a place in purgatory where designers go to spend 1000 years fumbling with overly complex controls with tiny buttons whilst devils prod them with pitchforks, demanding that their meals-on-wheels mac&cheese be heated up.
It was a two year death meditation of sorts. Nowadays, when the subject comes up, mom and I talk about it, naturally, covering the dark and the light of death, and the in-between. But at least we talk about it, and I know exactly how she feels and what she wants. There is clarity. That’s a good thing.
If I were to wake up and find one of these damn things looking at me, I would totally freak, pee in my Depends, and burn rubber on my wheelchair trying to escape before it transferred its evil soul to my body. I suspect Elon Musk would agree.
Here we are, fifty years later, and my Mom, and millions of seniors like her, cannot have a taste of what relieved the suffering of the president of the United States. 1000 years from now, we’ll feel bad about that.