There’s something
I haven’t told you. There’s something I’ve kept from you. Something that shames
me more than my uncooperative ovaries and over sharing, combined. But because
we’re all recklessly divulging our most vulnerable thoughts to strangers
friends here in anonymous-blog-land,
I am going to be nothing if not candid.
You guys – I
faint when I get my blood taken. Not every time, but kind of a lot. Enough so
that there was[1] a special
note in my file that two nurses should be present whenever I have the
privilege of giving blood, in case I, you know, go down. I cannot lie: the
nurses were INCREDIBLY UNAMUSED by this requirement. Because on top of the 30
other hormonal pincushions they have to deal with in a very short period of
time, very early in the morning, there’s this
super high maintenance chick. *takes bow*.
Plus, I also
have to contend with this incredibly demoralizing fact: C is basically a
phlebotomist’s wet dream. Because he is a self-righteous saint has a
rare blood type and is a glutton for punishment, C gives blood at every
opportunity. Doesn’t flinch, keeps his eyes open, chats away – the color never
even leaves his face. But I, well, I am a freak. On bad days, sweat starts
pouring off me with brazen abandon and my until-now-quiet-stomach lurches into
a volcanic frenzy. Within seconds, I’m down for the count. The nauseous, sweaty, count.
