Designated Drivers

I don’t really think about this topic much, but did over the weekend when I realised that the Boy Wonder is not really cut out for being the designated driver. If he is playing, then he tends not to drink anyway, and so will happily drive home, but if not, I really can’t remember more than a few times when he has driven home just so I could drink, and they have normally been from parental visits for some reason. Not that I mind really – when we first got together I couldn’t drive. Having lived in London my whole life, and having had a fraught time learning to drive with the ‘help’ of my father, it never seemed that important to complete the process. When I first moved to Cambridge I lived within walking distance of town, university and work, so never needed to drive then either. However, once I moved in with the Boy Wonder I started to feel guilty that he always drove everywhere and so I had driving lessons with a man who looked an awful lot like Gerry Adams. He did his own talking though, so I knew it wasn’t the real Gerry Adams, and he taught me the rest of what I needed to know to pass my test first time – go me. By this time, the Boy Wonder and I had been together for about three years, so I told him I would drive for the next three years, which I duly did. That was about five years ago, and I am still the designated driver, largely due to the fact that my period of abstinence from alcohol was so prolonged that whilst I was ‘serving my time’ I became a complete lightweight and started falling asleep after a couple of drinks. I also ‘went off’ drinking a bit as I couldn’t find a drink I liked enough to warrant the Boy Wonder driving home. Fast forward to the present, a time when the Bow takes care of all my alcohol needs and we went out last Friday. We had discussed the option of leaving a car in town and getting a cab home, but following the wedding and honeymoon we are both a bit skint, so opted for one of us driving home. A prolonged discussion followed where the Boy Wonder offered to drive, even stating that it was his ‘turn’, then I offered to drive, and it became a case of ‘who will crack first’. I did – I said ‘Alright then, you drive.’ Cue a tragically despondent face from the Boy Wonder, to which my immediate response was ‘Well, you were clearly bluffing weren’t you?’ He claims he wasn’t, but then adds ‘If had known you were going to say that I would have parked somewhere else and got a cab home.’ I order water while he orders a beer, but still the matter is not resolved. We discuss moving the car over dinner, by which point I am beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable about how much fuss is being made over this, and as I still haven’t drunk anything, I offer to drive home again. Boy Wonder is sticking to his guns though, and insists I have some wine. At 3am when we come to leave, and I am still pretty sober having only drunk about three glasses of wine in the last six hours, I realise the futility of this exercise. The Boy Wonder doesn’t want to drive, and I would rather not drink than spend an evening with him looking vaguely saddened by his tee-totality. I also cannot bear another discussion over the matter where he pretends he doesn’t mind, but is unable to arrange his face in an expression that does not convey intense disappointment if I do take him up on the offer. This is not a complaint, but a slightly sickening realisation that I would rather not drink than prevent the Boy Wonder from drinking if he wants to, and I can’t enjoy myself if the Boy Wonder isn’t enjoying himself – I suppose that is a good thing being as we just got married and I should like him and stuff, but it still surprises me how much I really do…