I Could Be Your Designated Driver
You’ve had too much too drink — you always do.
But looking at the clock, which reads 2:14 AM and looking at your eyes which are oh-so-red, I am telling you now like I’ve told you before, I could be your designated driver and no one would have to know.
I would not wear a T-shirt that said, “I Am His Designated Driver” with an arrow pointing to the left, while you wore a T-shirt that said, “He Is My Designated Driver” with an arrow pointing to the right. These are trivial notoriety issues that I have little concern about. I do not need people to know that I care for your well being and your car’s bumper and your ability to retain some kind of dignity. These are things I do out of the goodness of my heart – which I will, just so know, repeat to you over and over and over again on the ride home, which I am providing since I am your designated driver.
I will have a list of rules you will have to follow if you want my designated-driverness to grace your night out at the bars and the Sizzlers. They will be that (a) you must give me your keys as soon as we arrive at our destination, (b) that if we meet a group of hot looking women you will talk me up as your super designated driver (even though I had previously said I don’t need notoriety, which was sort of a lie since no one is ever a designated driver just for one simple reason), (c) that you must buy me as many Shirley Temples as I request over the course of the evening, (d) that you make me the executor of your will, and (e) if I happen to crash your car on the way home due to some weird lapse in judgement — that you will not hold me responsible.
Such simple requests for saving your life.
I could be a variety of designated drivers to you. I could be the “if you don’t give me your keys now I’m going to kick your ass” designated driver or the “think about your family and those who care for you” designated driver. I could be the “I’m so gonna party with you too in an attempt to hide my square-designated driver capacity even though I’m only drinking Shirley Temples” or I could simply be the “depressed and bored/lethargic” designated driver who “always seems to get stuck with this damn job.”
It’s tough being the designated driver if simply because I would have to be the “adult” of the night. No lap dances, no fifteen seconds on the keg, no bar-room brawls with burly, tattooed bikers. I would just have to sit there, clasping onto your key ring and remembering the lonely motto of designated driver’s everywhere:
Always get the drunk guy home.
It’s a tough job. But someone’s gotta do it. And that someone, might as well be me.
(You know, if it’s worth my while.)