true blood

This past week the South African National Blood Service spent a day at our offices collecting blood. I haven’t ever donated because I’ve always been under the impression that my previously vegetarian, now vegan, blood would be rejected (trust my inferiority complex to extend so far as to the quality of my blood).

I was on my way out of the toilets when I was waylaid by a co-worker who demanded to know whether I was going to “feed the vampires”. I was about to tell her I don’t follow Twilight when the light-bulb went on and I thought “what the hell”. I decided to go for the initial prick-test so that I could at least feel validated in having tried to do my part.

Imagine my utter shock when the results for the iron test came back and I was a good few points above the required minimum for donating. I was so busy patting my vegan-self on the back that it took me a while to realise that I hadn’t quite mentally committed to or prepared for the consequences of my passing the screening test.

My pain tolerance is generally high, I’ve never had a problem with any of the tattoos I’ve commissioned, I have a fair amount of scars on my body and I’ve survived numerous bikini waxes. However, when the nurse (read: the beaming angel of blood-letting) strapped my arm to a chair and whipped out her mother-of-a-hypodermic-needle I turned into a real p***y and contemplated making my escape. I ultimately decided against it and, instead, subjected myself to 20 minutes of MTV’s “When I was 17”.

To make my first experience of donating even more memorable, I found myself lying next to one of the most competitive and A-type personality Amazons at the firm. Alas, what ensued was a passive-aggressive-blood-donating-race accompanied by overtly aggressive fist pumping. I have low blood pressure. Her blood cells wouldn’t deign to operate in anything but a high pressure system. I had a five minute head-start. We were neck-in-neck. The beaming angel of blood-letting kept on shaking my blood-bag and looking at it with sad disappointment. All I could wonder was “how the fuck is her bag filling up so quickly” and “how the hell does she pump her fist so quickly with a needle lodged in her arm” and “is she even human” before launching into another frenzied spasm of fist pumping of my own.

By the end of the 20 minutes my teeth were on edge, my legs were writhing from an oncoming bout of claustrophobia and I knew everything that Audrina Patridge had done when she was 17. Despite my fragile condition, I shot off that seat 30 seconds before the Amazon, gave her one last fist-pump-of-near-hysterical-triumph, and dashed for the safety of the lifts before she drop-kicked my ass.

Least to say, I will most definitely be doing this again.