A Restraining Order

So I went to give blood the other day. I'm sure everyone's familiar with the process: you read a pamphlet and then get taken behind this tiny screen for interrogation. It's top secret and very invasive. And then you walk out and sit in the next line to actually donate your blood. Then you get treats. Voila. You've given life and you've received Oreos. I can't think of a better way to spend an hour. Once or twice, however, I've gone behind the tiny screen and walked out in shame because they didn't want my blood. I didn't get to go to the next line and I certainly didn't get a complimentary juice box (except once they took pity on me.) It's a very awkward feeling. Everybody sees you come out from behind the screen and they know what questions you have been asked. And they are left to wonder either what act of promiscuity you have committed or when you traveled covertly out of the country and lived in Africa for three years, because nobody remembers you doing that. Meanwhile, you are walking the long walk of shame back to your car, publicly circumventing all other stations.
Well, once I was denied because I had had some flu symptoms a couple days previously. Oops. And once I was denied because my iron count was too low. But last week I was denied for a whole new reason that must have been proportionately worse because this time, they made me sign a contract, promising that I wouldn't come back for a year. Really?! A contract? Do you really think I'm going to FORCE my blood upon someone when you feel it is TAINTED?! Yes, I have been restrained from the Red Cross. If I try to give blood again, who knows what will happen? Maybe they'll draw a red A on me like Hester. Or maybe, it will be even worse. Maybe they'll make me sign a contract that says I'll never have a fig newton again! Or juice and oreos! That would be devastating. In the meantime I guess I'll keep my blood to myself.