P,
Your recent chat about considering interests outside my own inspired me to donate blood at the cherubs’ school blood drive yesterday. Propelled by the notion that donating a pint is equivalent to burning sufficient calories to erase one pound, I offered my highly desirable blood type (that’s not arrogant, just so true) without another thought for my own welfare. Of course I had no idea how much the Red Cross resembles the Soviet bureaucracy of days past. I assumed I would be feted like a Queen by the way they solicited me, but the resulting morass made me realize how much I deserved a post-event pedi/manicure.
Unfortunately the questions now asked of innocent donors resemble a checklist I hope to administer to my own daughters’ first suitors. How can I be certain whether hubby, really, has ever had sex with even one man? I can only assume, based upon his retiscence to admit to a chewing tobacco habit, that it is entirely possible. I even stumbled over questions about my intimate relations with the British. Didn’t mention our recent correspondence as I was concerned that I would be denied the opportunity to shed the aforementioned calories but do feel slightly dirty now and strongly believe that you are entirely responsible.
In any case, as I wasn’t preliminary screened as an inappropriate donor, I was at last offered the coveted bleeder’s repose. I must confess my enjoyment for the simple pampering of the actual donation process. It suddenly becomes all about how one feels and great attention is paid to every slight nod of the head and sweat on the brow (hubby could take a few lessons). Even the prepping of my arm was slightly sensual as the iodine was rubbed soothingly and nearly endlessly to assure, I suppose, a sterile field for the needle stick (you do suppose they do this to everyone, right?).
Unfortunately, although the giving was so good, the stopping was not. Although never fettered with any problem in the past, seems I’ve become what they now term a bleeder. Although the needle was removed, my precious life fluid continued to flow. Although I relished the opportunity to drop another pound, it did occur to me as I became rather light-headed that maybe there were simpler ways to slim the waist. I began to get quite comfortable as the personnel surrounded me and, in hushed and urgent tones, talked about a trip to the hospital. Alas, within another thirty seconds, my platelets apparently received word of the need, and the clotting began. Instead of an afternoon of doting care and attention, I was shortly asked to leave the chair for another. And fetch my cherubs immediately.
I naturally spent the rest of the day telling my young about my great sacrifice on their behalf and spent the evening refueling my lost liquid (I assume cosmopolitans are best for this since they are blood red). Although it’s pretty clear you and yours will not likely ever be eligible to donate (and hubby’s own attempt resulted in a less than manly fainting spell), I am happy to carry the burden of donating every six weeks or so. Don’t worry if I become too thin as, much like Paris Hilton, I do it all in the interest of a better world.
Faithfully,
C.
