They'd been calling me for weeks, begging. I'd kept putting them off. Finally, I acquiesced. They wanted my blood, they'd have my blood.

I'm not sure if other towns have the strong persuasion of the Red Cross to deal with, but they are persistent in cajoling you to come in. And it had been a long time. Not for lack of trying. The last time I was deferred for lack of adequate iron levels in my blood.

So, I walked in, fully expecting another deferral. I had no appointment, but walk-ins were always welcome, and even after being told there was an hour wait ahead, I held true. I even walked to a nearby farmer's market in that hour to browse, buy and talk with a friend.

I returned and went through the motions. Everytime, they make you read the same stuff. Everytime, you need to sit down with a nurse. But I was tired, and one of her questions stumped me. "Sex?"

They are asking that now? "Um....female?" Isn't it obvious? But they need to ask, I guess.

They asked the other questions that they always ask. They take my blood pressure, and I'm thrilled to hear it is low. My life isn't risky, and my blood tested fine. They were going to get their blood today.

I got to the bench where I was to lay and waited. They were busy. They have moved to a scanner thing on top of a Palm Pilot. They scan bar code for your name, for your blood type, for the nurses name, for the test tubes that they'll use to verify your blood. So many scans that the air was filled with the sound of beeps like crickets on a hot summer night. Nearby, a skinny girl lay flat, recovering after nearly fainting.

Lots of people are won't donate because of the needle. It's really not bad. I don't watch. I look up at the ceiling, or at the door, or at the people munching treats in the kitchen. I think about other things like work or what to buy at Target on my way home, stare at the newspaper on the table just out of my reach, wishing for something to read, or watch the television running CNN. I refuse to even look until the nurse has draped my elbow with a dressing to hide where the needle enters my skin. Then it is safe. Then it doesn't hurt.

I'm a competitive blood donater. I can give a pint of blood in 5 minutes flat. I looked around for my foe. There. An older man who was stuck about the same time that I was. Bring it on. I squeezed the little ball in my hand hard, and I beat him easily. I'm out of the donation area several minutes before he is. It's almost too easy.

I walked out first, triumphant, and proceeded down the sidewalk to my car after a brief stop for post-donation treats. I feel good. I've done a good deed with that simple act, and have 8 weeks of quiet before they'll start calling me again. And I know that they will.