It’s not that I have a thing about needles.

On the contrary, I’ve given blood lots of times.

In high school, our chapter of National Honor Society, of which I was a member, organized a blood drive.

And I’ve given scads of pints at Iowa State, at least when I wasn’t hovering in that 12-month, post-tattoo waiting period.

But one time, giving blood wasn’t as easy as it usually is. I was home for the summer, and I had gotten a postcard in the mail from the Community Blood Center downtown, which said that they were running low on my particular blood type (B+), and would I mind coming down to donate?

I was so excited to even get mail, especially when my folks’ house is not even my mailing address, that I decided right then and there to brave heavy traffic to go give blood.

I even managed to convince my friend Mark to come with me.

It was a 20-minute drive to the blood bank, and we stopped at Sonic on the way to fill up on fluids (cherry limeade).

Mark even came up with this theory that a person’s blood type matches his or her grade point average.

That would bode well with my somewhere-in-the-three-range GPA, as well as his sickeningly perfect four-point, given his A+ blood type.

Once there, we were greeted by employees who seemed thrilled that we had answered their plea for help, and we were quickly ushered into a waiting room to fill out a questionnaire about our sexual and “recreational” habits.

Luckily, neither of us had paid for sex or drugs, nor had we had sexual relations with homosexual men since 1978. We were in!

Since I was used to the more bare-bones structure of high school blood drives and the ones here at Iowa State, where donors lay on tables when the needle is working its magic, I was pleasantly surprised at the comfy, La-Z-Boy-type lounge chairs that awaited us.

Once we settled in to our chairs (sitting across from each other so that we could see the other person), Mark challenged me to a race, just to see who could fill up their bag first. Speedy donation, just so you know, is achieved by squeezing your fist quickly in order for the blood to pump out faster.

Not that you yourself should try this.

I wasn’t about to back away from such a challenge, so I accepted. After furious fist-squeezing, I emerged the victor, but Mark was not far behind.

A nurse came over to take the needle out as I was gloating over my victory, and she asked what we were going to do that night (apparently, she thought we were dating).

I mentioned that I thought we were going to go see a movie, and she suggested “The Flintstones.” “It sounds cute,” she said.

I remember wondering how someone could possibly think that that movie sounded promising, when her voice became softer and I felt myself sinking into darkness.

The next thing I knew, like, eight nurses were crowded around me, waving smelling salts under my nose.

(By the way, in case you’re curious, smelling salts smell like ammonia, and it’s not the most pleasant way to wake up.)

I looked groggily at Mark, who looked stricken and as pale as a ghost, probably from guilt.

Needless to say, I hadn’t donated blood since this incident. It’s not that I’m scared, necessarily, but I was slightly nervous that if I passed out again, it won’t be into a cushy lounge chair.

But, I am proud to say that as soon as I saw the flyers about the blood drive in the Great Hall, I ventured over to donate. The students in charge, as well as the nurses wielding needles, were ultra-nice and comforting.

So I say to all students: If I could overcome my disheartening experience to give blood again, everyone should be able to make it to the Union this week to do the same.

This time, though, a nice, slow, leisurely donation worked just fine.