You can't win 'em all

The night started pretty early on Saturday. Around noon to be exact. The boys and I went up to Tahoe to enjoy the lack of o-zone and overabundant supply of uninhibited women. As usual, a couple of mistakes were made on both my part and the part of the crew that day. For starters, I was lucky enough to be standing on one of the most beautiful beaches in Tahoe surrounded by hundreds of gorgeous women in bikinis, yet was somehow forgetful enough to leave my prescription glasses and/or contacts at the house. This little issue effectively turned a beach full of half naked models into fuzzy blobs of hair and curvy tropical colors. Our method for finding the perfect temporary beach site is made up of a three part selection process: 1. Listen for music, 2. Look for zee boobies, 3. If there are children within 30 feet, keep moving. After finding a spot that had a guy listening to Bob Marley on his stereo, a group of roughly 4 or 5 good looking girls directly in front of us, and no children, we set up shop. As I have come to learn with beach party scenarios, there is a good chance that your enjoyable time at the beach can morph into an insane explosion of college debauchery based completely on the location you choose when first arriving. Within 3 hours of our arrival, roughly 300 people had made our spot on the beach, the most insanely happening location on the lake. Girls are running around topless, beach volleyball is being played at Olympic proficiency levels, jet skis and wave runners are hitting the sandy beaches at 20 mph sending drunks flying through the air in hopes of getting attention through inevitable personal bodily harm. We had all the makings of a really great time.
As the sober driver, a lot of the time you resent those around you; at least I do; especially when you're the sober driver at an epic beach bash that rivals even the greatest B-Rated teen movie scenes. There I am, unable to embark on this journey of irresponsibility, squinting like a Korean Glaucoma patient trying to pass a driver's test, sober and getting sunburned. I pack my stuff up and tell the guys that I'm heading home. The rest of the evening consisted of my unwavering ability to be a poor-sport blended with a hint of my defeatist attitude that allowed me wallow in the disappointment of missing out on a great time. I know you may be thinking, “How can this be a good story? Is that it?” Yes my friend; that is it. Sometimes you have to take the good times with the bad, suck it up, and charge $44.99 to your roommate’s cable account on a UFC fight, eat everything in the house, and leave a giant mess in the living room for them to clean up while hung over. Thus is the life of the Designated Driver.