Woozy II

I was going to call it Spectacle II, but I thought Woozy II had more of a ring to it.

So there I was going back to work after giving blood, still in a semi-woozy state. I had talked to my manager. I also reported to my nearest co-worker. I figured if I collapsed in a heap, he would be the first to notice.

Lunch was less than a half hour away. I could make it. I was sitting down, I could work slowly. As I had walked from the blood drive place to my area, I had been pleased to note that I felt better. As I worked, I was discouraged to note that I felt worse. Headache, nausea, I could rock this, I told myself.

Putting food in my body would probably help. I had some vanilla yogurt and diced apple with granola. I usually eat it for my 9 a.m. snack, but this day I had gone to the blood drive instead. That went down OK, but nothing else in my lunch box sounded even vaguely appetizing.

I told my co-workers about my woozy experience. They told me I still looked a little woozy and advised me to report back to the nurses. I told them that every time they used the word “woozy” I felt a little more woozy. I have a very suggestible nature. For the rest of the day, one guy made it a point to use the word “woozy” in every sentence he spoke.

“You look as if you don’t feel too good,” another fellow said, too tactful to say I looked like crap, which I believe is what he was thinking.

At one point I stood up to go join a couple of guys who always work on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper during lunch. I changed my mind and sat back down. Co-workers expressed further concern, but I assured them I was fine.

“You just stood up and immediately had to sit back down, I don’t think you’re better,” said the guy who had told me I didn’t look too good.

“I didn’t have to sit back down, I chose to sat back down,” I told him, and hoped he didn’t notice I said “sat” for “sit” after “chose to.”

Another co-worker gave me some pretzel rods, which did help settle my stomach. She said she would keep an eye on me during the afternoon. “If I see a grey-haired speed bump in the aisle, I’ll know it’s you,” she said.

“But you won’t see her legs,” a guy said, referring to my camouflage BDU pants.

“Does Cindy even have legs?” someone asked.

“I got legs,” I told them. “ZZ Top wrote a song about it.” I sang a little of it, in case they didn’t know what I meant.

“You’re not planning on quitting your day job any time soon, are you?”

I gave him my saddest look.

“Are your feeling hurt or are you feeling woozy?”

“My feelings are so hurt, it’s making me woozy.” I took my unloved voice back to work.

I’m pleased to report that no grey-haired speed bumps (really an inspired description) caused anybody any hazard. After a while I got myself a blue Gatorade out of the machine. Miraculously, I began to feel better. Words cannot describe the happiness I felt at not having a headache.

So that is my story about giving blood. I signed up to give blood again in June. I put myself down for 12:45 p.m., right after lunch. We’ll see how much a hearty meal immediately beforehand helps.