Every once in a blue moon I do something really kind for someone. Someone other than myself, that is. I leave the quarter in the grocery cart at No Frills for the next customer. I let someone sit at my table with me when the Bean Cellar gets too packed and they have nowhere to eat their Ultimate Grilled Cheese. I push someone else’s kid on the swing at Harrison Park...though this one I wouldn’t recommend unless you’ve gotten the go-ahead from their parents. It makes parents a bit skittish otherwise.
And there is something I do when I am feeling especially kind. When I’m feeling benevolent, almost. Saint-like. I offer to be the designated driver for a night out.
Now these instances are few and far between, mind you. As I said – once in a blue moon. So every nineteen years or so. But every once in a while when I’m out with friends I am especially fond of, friends who really need to cut loose and get jiggy with it, I’ll give it a shot. Let them get rowdy, get sloshed, get silly. Let them be the ones making the bad decisions for a change.
Because I guess that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? I mean, if I’m willing to give up on my fun (and no, kids, you don’t need to drink to have fun) so you can have a good time, it’s sort of your responsibility to drink irresponsibly. Bare minimum I’d better see some dancing on tables. Better yet, some atrociously bad dancing on tables. I want to hear singing, laughing, some really earnest conversations that are actually just foolish. I might even want to see some terrible drunken flirting, successful or otherwise.
The point being, if I’m drinking water all night it is your job – nay, your moral responsibility – to entertain me. Because I’ve now committed myself to a long, sober evening of purely voyeuristic pleasure. Let’s face it, I’m in it so I can recap everything you did over an egg Mcmuffin the next morning. To watch you slumped over your coffee, head in hands, unable to look me in the eye. After all if you’ve ever been the designated driver for me I’ve done it for you.
So to help you out for the next time, here is what I don’t want to see...a bottle of water. Delicate yawns behind your cupped palm at 9:30. Polite clapping in time to the music. Covert glances at your watch. Nursing of any light beer for more than ten minutes. Fifteen tops.
I know I’m a taskmaster. I know it might seem a bit harsh – okay, a lot harsh. It’s just that I don’t get out much. And I just don’t get to see my friends make fools of themselves...ever really. They are all so smart and together and fun and kind. Which is quite selfish of them, in a way. If they want to rip me away from my usual night of television watching and/or trashy romance novel reading, they need to make it worth my while. They need to let me take care of them, it’s only fair. Unless they vomit. I don’t want to deal with vomiting.
I want to keep them from dancing on broken glass and make sure they don’t flirt too horribly and buckle them into their seatbelts at the end of the night. I want to make sure they get into bed ok and leave them some Advil with a big glass of water on the nightstand. I want to bring them hangover food for the next morning. But mostly I want to see them have fun. Really reckless fun.
Is that too much to ask?
(Shameless self-promotion alert – I’m running a writers workshop, The Art Of Writing The Everyday, starting the first Wednesday in February at the Downtown Bookstore. I promise you...I’m smarter than I seem. We’re offering tips on how to get published, how to write the world around and I’m even planning on having a field trip. It will be fun and informative and I might even bake you cookies. For details and prices talk to Hazel at the Bookstore or contact me at jrmmcguire@yahoo.ca. Hope to see you there!)
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