I normally don’t go down to the blood drive. It’s not that I’m afraid of needles or have a low threshold for pain, although that’s a powerful argument. I just don’t like the idea of my blood sitting in a bag somewhere instead of in my body. I did go down last week to give blood, because I like to support noble causes. And because Scott threatened to call me a coward.

Scott’s my former roommate. He and I have had long and complex debates on this subject, which all end the same way. He says I’m a wussy for not giving blood. For the women in the crowd, this is a learning point. If you ever want a guy to do something, just tell another guy to call him a wussy if he doesn’t. So the blood drive was important for saving lives, et cetera, etc. More importantly, it proved I wasn’t a wuss.

So there I am, laying on the stretcher with a tube channeling a steady stream of life force away from my body. The nurse comes back every once in a while to ask if I’m alright. I always thought this was a dumb question on the part of nurses. First off, I’m obviously not ok if I have a needle in my arm. Last time I checked, that wasn’t a natural part of human anatomy. Secondly, the nurse doesn’t really care if I’m ok. Seriously, if I said, “No, I’m feeling really weird about this needle in my arm,” she would pat me on the head like you would a disappointed child and say, “It’ll be over in a minute.” No offer to remove the needle. No pain killers, no nothing. So they shouldn’t ask if everything’s alright when anyone with half a brain cell can see the distinctly unnatural metal spear in my arm.

After they’ve extracted their pint of blood, the nurses call a volunteer over to walk you to the recovery section. The recovery section is full of donuts, soda, and cookies, and remains the one thing I like about the blood drive. The volunteers who escort people to this section fall into one of two categories, 1) old women and 2) high school girls. Which do you think I always end up with? You got it. It’s senior citizen appreciation day for me everytime. I think the nurses conspire to ensure I never get an escort who’s under the age of sixty-three.

I don’t mind the pain, the nurses, the silly questions, or the elderly escorts. Because I’ve proved that I’m not a wussy.

Serious note: This column may have made you laugh, but please think seriously about giving blood. I hate doing it, but it’s a small price to pay to think you may have saved a life. It only takes a small portion of your day and it does make a difference. Please contact your local Red Cross office to find out how you can help give the gift of life.