It's been way too long -- 12 years -- since the last time I donated blood. Used to do it regularly, often at the earliest bloodmobile available after I became eligible again. I started when I was 17, a good habit I'm thankful Dad instilled in me. As I became entrenched in the working world, the intervals between donations lengthened, but I never stopped completely, either catching a bloodmobile or going to the Red Cross Blood Center in Bangor.

I intended to continue it once I moved to NH, really I did, but various personal dramas and a brutal work schedule made it difficult to fit into my day. I did donate once, the first December I lived in NH, before driving back to Maine for the holiday. Since then, whenever I've seen posters announcing blood drives I would tell myself, oh, I need to remember that, but somehow never did, except for once. After 9/11, when there was such a push to get people to donate and such an outpouring of people doing so, I did try, at St. Michael in Exeter, but the line was long, and I was under a time crunch, and well, it just never happened.

Broke the drought today. There was a Red Cross blood drive at the beach, which you might think would be perfect for me, given how much time I spend there. But the drive only went until 4 p.m. (tip to the Red Cross -- schedule the drives later and get people coming off the beach, AFTER they've been swimming) and I had other things to do before I could go to the beach for *fun*, so I ended up making a special trip to give blood. No big. What it meant , though, was circling around a couple of times to look for acceptable (free, on-street) parking and, finding none, circliing around a couple more times scouting for acceptable (close to the bloodmobile) *metered* parking. A satisfactory one opened up as I was about to give up. Then I had to estimate how long it would take so as not to pump in more quarters than necessary. I certainly hope whoever gets my blood appreciates the effort. (Tip for the Red Cross -- validate parking!)

I call giving blood the poor woman's physical -- iron check, temperature check, blood-pressure check. The process is essentially still the same as it always was, with some technological advancements. I've failed the iron test sometimes in the past, and once or twice had to have my blood spun in the crit (I think that's what it's called) as a backup or whatever when it didn't float to the bottom of the fluid fast enough for their liking.  Now, of course, it's all digitized, and mine was 13-point-something, well above the 12-point-something needed to be eligible (guess taking myself out to breakfast wasn't such a bad idea, except maybe for my cholesterol).  My temp was 98.6 -- actually 98-point-freaking-6. I hate being so on-the-nose, but I like the '60s song. My blood pressure was 102/70, on the low side like I like. Despite my advanced weight (thankfully they didn't make me stand on a scale), I at least can continue to thumb my nose whenever Dad insists I should follow a high-blood-pressure diet just because he has to. But with those stats, I told the R.N. who processed me, I've never felt so bland. When it comes to giving blood, bland is good, she said, then launched into the excruciating series of questions about my health and, uh, let's just call it "history," that never fails to make me take stock of certain aspects of my life and end up feeling like I've wasted a lot of time -- now more than ever. Huh -- maybe there's another reason I've been avoiding these things.

That's the point where the poor woman's physical turns into the poor woman's therapy session. This time, I kept it down to one tissue, especially when the R.N., who was cool to commiserate with me instead of slapping me upside the head, related a personal tidbit of her own that put my own problems into perspective. Somewhat. That was a cool bonding moment.

But it wasn't all heavy. One of the other nurses was a dead ringer for Turk on "Scrubs," so I was enjoying that bit of eye candy, and joined in when he started singing along to "Maneater" on the radio. And there were a couple of cute younger men in the waiting area who actually acknowledged my presence without calling me "miss" (see the "call me ma'am" post). And of course, there was the free food and juice (the latter made me kinda glad I never had kids and  missed the whole juice box trend -- those things is complicated!). And on this occasion, there was a lovely view of the beach and, out the other window, better people-watching than I remember at other bloodmobiles. I told the staff they should have set up the cots on the roof of their little RV so we could catch a few rays while squeezing every few seconds. AND, they were giving away free Red Sox t-shirts.

It was after 5 before I got back to the beach for my more accustomed purpose. I wasn't supposed to get the needle stick area wet, so it's a good thing "swimming" to me usually just consists of "wading in up to my waist and letting the waves wash over me." But have you ever tried to do that and still keep your inner elbow dry?