After graduating from college in 1995, I had moved to Charlotte, NC (with a boyfriend who became a fiance who became an ex-fiance who became an ex-boyfriend. Bygones.) and landed myself a "big girl" job through a temp agency as a Buyer's Assistant. Which was a fancy way of saying I did data entry for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. CLEARLY my Bachelor's degree in Psychology was paying off in spades. It was mind-numbing, but I met some great people at that job who are now lifelong friends. (Hi Michelle! Hi Bo!)
Anyway, I had donated blood in the past a few times and my work happened to be holding a blood drive in a conference room on our floor one morning.
I felt FINE throughout the entire process.
I passed out.
When I came to, there were many faces hovering above me. I felt like I was drenched in sweat.
I was mortified and wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
So once I was cleared, I high-tailed it back to my little cubicle.
"Boy, I'm reaaaalllly sweaty," I thought. And I truly was. My armpits. The back of my neck. My hairline.
And my underwear.
Thankfully I was wearing black pants.
I scurried to the bathroom to investigate.
Where I realized that I had, indeed, PEED MY PANTS WHILE I WAS PASSED OUT.
So I had to lie to my boss (I used the sweaty and clammy excuse and obviously she couldn't say no because hello? I had just PASSED OUT) in order to leave to drive home to SHOWER and change my clothes and then drive back to work. (Why did I even go back to work that day? I have NO IDEA.)
(And now, all these years later, I wonder if I SMELLED LIKE PEE?)
So there you have it. Needless to say, I have never felt compelled to donate blood again.
I think I have a pretty good excuse.