Self Improvement: Giving Blood

The invigorating practice of blood letting, which, unfortunately, lost the favor of the masses in the 19th century, is alive and well at your local Red Cross. I have found that allowing my veins a warming confession of 1 liter per month keeps me feeling fit and in good spirits. I love to spend an afternoon reclining in the phlebotomist's chair, swaddled with blankets as the warm rush leaves my arm and collects in the bag below, a rich and swirling broth which nurses check occasionally with a squeeze, allowing me, amidst the faint scent of iodine and bleach, a glimpse past their drooping blouses, at sturdy breasts cupped in sweat yellowed bras... I love the shaky uncertainty of my trek to the snack table, to sup upon fig newtons and orange juice, always tempted to allow myself a fainting spell, so the strong armed assistants can carry me to the recovery cots, where I can peacefully cultivate new blood cells in the hive like hum of the fluorescent light... What sorrow to shuffle out into the sun, pathetic bandages around my wound a reminder of the unbearable wait until my next purge, and renewed vigilance against pleasure crushing anemia. With the exception of last month's embarrassingly leaky tourniquet at the Apple Store, I've had no reason to believe this is not an exercise in which I will find consistent benefit.