Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Genetics are a strange thing, kind of like an experiment in mixology. You really never know what kind of cocktail mom and dad will serve up, but you hope the drink isn't a mess. If you're lucky, sometimes you get the good stuff, like a high IQ, a creative talent,or the the ability to labor and deliver in record time. However, this on it's own is too sweet and will need some sour to make the perfect blend.

One of my top negative inherited traits, (aside from a propensity for neuroticism, impulsive behavior, and a disproportionate chest size) are small veins. Thanks dad. As a kid, this manifested in an unusual interest in bubble baths and fireplaces just to stay warm. Then, as I became older, there were other signs of something amiss. I had freakishly low blood pressure and poor circulation which lead to my arms and legs frequently falling asleep and random fainting spells. Yet I wasn't really aware that my veins were the genesis of my physical quirks until I tried to donate blood in college. I was actually turned away after four nurses, who drew blood on a regular basis, couldn't find a good vein. So much for being any good to any fellow B+ blood types.

Since then, blood work has always been a source of a lot of time and effort. I know going into it that the tourniquet will be pulled extra tight and that my arms will be slapped until they are as red as an abused kid's bottom, but I always hope that there will be a successful outcome each and every time. In the beginning, the nurses are always optimistic, believing that the other arm will be better, only to end up using the back of my hands or neck in a final act of desperation. The veins here are even closer to surface, making it more painful as they dig numerous times trying to find any viable source. Then, when this doesn't work other staff members take a stab at it as if they're trying to beat the odds. If I'm lucky they get just enough blood to fill a small vial, but in most cases they reschedule me to come back. In the aftermath my weak arms are left covered in trail of bruises and bandaids that tell the story of stinging defeat.

Tomorrow will be my third attempt at the weight loss clinic to collect a sample to determine whether or not my bad cholesterol has lowered. All I can say is that those wimpy blood vessels better pump up the volume and the blood better start coursing through my body cause I ain't no pin cushion and I'm tried of all the boo boos! If people twice my age can have juicy ones then why can't I? It's just weird and everyone is probably secretly beginning to wonder if I even have a heart. I can run my arms under hot water at length and do push ups until I drop, but there is only so much water a woman who has had children can guzzle and retain.