I opened up my email yesterday and saw the following message from my mom:
Did you go donate plasma yet?
This is one of those moments where I have to pause and wonder what I said to my mom to make her think that I’m seriously contemplating donating plasma. I mean, granted, it’s something I did a handful of times in college — but only when I was pretty much desperate. But plasma donation and college obviously go hand-in-hand. After all, if you can stand being surrounded by toothless men and pregnant women who look like they haven’t showered in weeks, plasma donation can lead to a semi-lucrative business.
So now, it concerns me that my mom thinks, at the ripe old age of 34, I’m at a point in my life where I might actually have to go sell my blood.
I often joke about this very thing in order to: a) fund my roller derby obsession, b) fill my belly with aged Parmesan and cheddar cheeses, and c) I don’t even know what else, because really, do I talk about donating plasma that often?
So, in case anybody else out there is concerned, everything’s fine.