I'm not saying I have a desire to be ridiculously rich and famous, but if I were, I can tell you this: having a driver would be on my top ten reasons to be so. Okay, top three.
So imagine my unfettered joy when I read the Instructions for Colonoscopy I recently received from the Gastroenterology Department of the Lexington Clinic. There, in bold face type, in the final bullet:
- All patients must have a driver.
And not only that, they are not talking some fakey-fakey limo temp who drops you off at Bouchon for Anderson Cooper's Bachelorette party and then bails. No, siree. The bullet goes on to demand: The driver must be able to wait in the surgery center during the procedure.
Rare to take for granted anything in life, I sort of keep this whole potential life changer to myself. Driver. Me? Who am I kidding. But then I get the phone call.
"Michael Miller, please," the Clinic nurse intones in such a way that I immediately know what it is about (okay, caller ID, whatever).
After spending a few minutes chatting politely about the day-before all liquid diet, the potentially gut wrenching Bisacodyle/HalfLytely regime, the $27,312.90 co-pay, she asks the golden question.
"And who, Mr. Miller, will be your driver."
"Eh, Tom," I stammer, "Of course, yes, my partner, er, driver, Tom."
"And will he be able to wait in the surgery center during the entire procedure?"
"Well, of course!" I proclaim, with the newfound confidence of a recently nominated Fox television musical comedy series starlette.
I never even really knew I always wanted a driver. Isn't life fabulous that way?