At least I’ve got killer calves!
For many years, I struggled to find a single thing I liked about myself. Eventually I’d land on my calves, which garnered compliments long before I understood why the heck anyone would care about what was below the knees—or above them, for that matter!
When I became eligible to give blood on my 17th birthday, I seized that opportunity. Some years before, my godfather had died while waiting for a transplant. I couldn’t give a liver, an eye or a heart, yet, but I could help someone live by donating a pint of blood and an hour of my time.
Did I mention I hate the sight of my blood, or even the thought of it outside my body? I almost passed out every time I gave blood, not because the blood loss itself was substantial—it’s not!—but because mybloodisleavingmybodyomgnonononono.
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