So, I’m not a big fan of needles. At all. I dread getting bloodwork done. And typically, unless I am actually really sick, I get my blood drawn once a year–they do blood profiling at work and I succumb to that. I would donate my blood, too, if I could, but apparently when you live in Europe during mad cow disease of the late 80s and early 90s you are permanently deferred (who’d’ve thunk it?). So, the red cross won’t take my blood…and I’m okay with that. I mean, i do feel a little guilty, because I would give it if I could, but frankly, not getting needles jabbed in my arm is okay with me.
My blood profiling for work is next week. I’ve been mentally preparing for it for some time now. Just getting myself all jazzed up and convincing myself it will work out just fine.
This morning I went to the doctor regarding a medication change. I thought it would be one of those quick in and out trips. The nurse came in, took my blood pressure. Left. Doctor came in, discussed changes, left. 10 minutes later he sticks his head in and declares: “I think I am going to do some blood work too, just to make sure we are on the right track.”
Bleh. Please no.
So, blood lady comes in. I have to lie down. I can’t watch. Before I know it, it was over and she patched me up with a large bandaid with a very colorful design–she forgot to put regular ones back in her caddy. I know, right?
I survived. Immediately afterwards I headed to the local gas station and filled up my 32 oz Diet Dew. There was a cute guy standing next to me filling his with some Diet Coke.
He says “Excuse me” as he sneaks by me.
I say, “No problem.”
He looks down at my arm, and then he says, “Sweet Bandaid…”