Phlebotomist Phlirtation?

Today I donated blood at work. Every 8 weeks the bloodmobile parks outside our building and takes donations. I try to go every time they come by.

I was wearing a long sleeve red stretchy cotton pullover with a hood. As I sat back in the reclining lounger in the bloodmobile, my phlebotomist came over to get me started. He asked me my first and last name to confirm that he had the correct form to go with the correct blood bags and correct person. He asked me how I was feeling. I said I was feeling just fine. My blood-taker was a black man with a beaming smile and very nice eyes. I don't know how to describe eyes, but he had a little spark in his that day. He was quite good-looking and had a nice body. Maybe a little pooch on the belly but not much.

He then asked me if I was cold. My first reaction to being asked if I am cold, especially by a man, is to wonder if my nipples are hard and sticking out through my bra and shirt. I should not have expected a stranger to draw attention to my nipples, if in fact they were hard, but I am so used to being around gay men who would have no issue at all pointing out my pointies. I immediately glanced down at my chest. Nope, nipples were not visible. Think, Kelly. This is a a health care professional, not one of your friends. He is not referring to nipples. He must be asking out of general professional concern. Like, Would you like something to drink? or You'll just feel a little pinch here. No, I replied, I am not cold. He said, Well I just wondered because you are wearing that lovely warm red fleece. Ahh, I thought, okay that makes sense. I told him that I knew it was 100 degrees outside but that the office sometimes gets cold. The conversation continued as he swabbed my arm, finished his preparations and inserted the needle.

Me: Yea I wore this red shirt because I knew I would be donating blood today. You know, in case there's an accident. It will blend right in.

He is wearing red scrubs.

Me: I see you are wearing red also.
Him: (smiling) Well I tend to be messy at work, so red works for me.
Me: (shaking my head back and forth with a mock serious tone) That is not good to hear.
Him: Just kidding.

He offers to get me a drink. I already need to pee from all the fluids I have been downing all day in preparation for donating. I decline.

Him: So what do you do for work?
Me: Oh I spend a lot of time sitting at a computer.
Him: I see.
(pause)
Him: Do you have kids?
Me: Um, no.
Him: Do you want to have kids?
Me: Um, I love kids, but I think that time is almost over for me.

What the hell? Right outta the gate he asks me if I have kids, and then if I want kids? Seems like he is getting a little personal. He is smiling in a very charming kind of way now and I can feel myself flushing a little in the face. Damn. And what am I thinking? Nothing more charming than talking to a man about your impending infertility! Geesh Kelly!

Him: So what do you do when you are not at work?

I hate this question from people. I am boring and I live a boring life. But I don't want to seem too boring. How can I answer this question to not seem dull? I fail miserably with my answer.

Me: Nothing too exciting.

Damn.

Him: So you don't do anything exciting outside of work?
Me: Well I sometime hang out with my friend and her kids.
Him: (squinting a little at that answer, but still smiling) You hang out with your friend's kids? (pause) I mean, OK, on Sundays, maybe you read or watch TV or watch a movie and just relax. I can see that. But let's take Saturdays. What do you do on Saturdays?

Jeez-a-low Pete! Pry a little bit there, bub?

Me: Um, sometimes I go to the movies or to the beach.
Him: The beach! There! See? That's what I'm talking about!
Me: Well sure I go to the beach.
Him: Me, I like to go out at night sometimes.
Me: Like to a bar? A club?
Him: Yea, sometimes. I like the vibe. I like the whole atmosphere. I mean, I don't have to drink or anything but I like being out with the people.
Me: I am little old for that.

I can't help it! I know it's a stupid thing to say, but I was never good at talking to men. He glances over at my paperwork, presumably looking at my date of birth. Then he looks up at the ceiling, obviously calculating my age in his head. Then he looks back at me.

Him: If I were your age, I wouldn't think I was old.
Me: (smiling) That's 'cause you're a man. A man can get away with being older.
Him: (he smiles back in response) Yea, you're probably a little right about that! (he pauses) As long as you haven't given up.

What? Given up? How did he know?

Me: No, I haven't given up. I just did all that clubbing stuff in my 20s. I did plenty to last me a lifetime. I don't often get an urge to go to clubs anymore. So how old are you?
Him: I am 38. I don't know how I feel about that.

Hmmm, 8 years younger than me. What's the rule? If he is at least 7 years older than half your age, it's OK. Yea, he's good to go. But all I can think right now is how many chins I must be showing while lying back in this unflattering angle.

Me: 38 is a great age to be.
Him: You think so?
Me: Yeah.
Him: But then I hit 40 and I just have to give up?
Me: NO! It's all good. Every age has something to show you. But 38 is a good age to be.
Him: Ya think so, huh? I like to try different things. I like to do things to feel alive. Not dangerous things, but, like, skydiving sounds great.
Me: Yeah I want to do that also.
Him: So what do you do to feel alive?

Now the pressure is on. Dammit, what DO I do to feel alive? Who IS this guy?

Me: Well, there's some things I want to try. Skydiving would be one of those things. For example, growing up with an overly protective father, I was not exposed to guns at all and didn't know anyone who had a gun, to my knowledge. But I decided I wanted to shoot a gun, so I went to a shooting range and spent some money on it.
Him: And you liked it right?
Me: Sure.
Him: (grinning) Made you want to do it again, right?
Me: Yea, I would like to do it again. Shot a hand gun last time but would like to try something else.

Now he begins the process of stopping the blood flow and taking the needle out. I have bled in record time. Perhaps my heart was beating a little faster than normal. He has sat next to me the whole time I am donating. I barely needed to do those gentle squeezes every 3 to 5 seconds they always recommend.

Him: So you don't like to go to clubs, huh? I like to go like once a month or so.
Me: It's not like I wouldn't go, but most of my friends here in Florida are old married people. They don't want to go out.
Him: So what do you do with them?
Me: We go out to eat sometimes. Or play board games.
Him: (raises one eyebrow and lowers the other) Board games, huh?
Me: No, really they can be fun.

Now I am just desperate to seem half-way interesting... He is so nice looking and so weirdly personal, but still respectful, with me. He just keeps grinning at me. Of course, now all I can think is, Would I go out with him?

Me: I lead a pretty quiet life right now. I had my party times and outrageous times back in my 20s. I am content to be kind of quiet right now. Besides that, I am on a bit of a spiritual journey. That's something new for me. Trying to get closer to God.

You can't make fun of someone who is trying to find religion, right?

Him: No, that's cool. I get it. I could use some more of that too. As long as you're out there living life.

He is the Tony Robbins of the bloodmobile? He finishes up and asks me again if I am feeling OK. I tell him I am. He puts a wrap on my arm, then decides it isn't good enough and adds another layer.

Him: Do you smoke?
I pause, for just a bit too long.
Him:(grinning like the devil himself, adorably cute) Ah, caught you! Don't lie.
Me: No, I don't smoke, but it's only been a year since I quit. I actually had to think about it for a split second.
Him: Well good. Then I don't have to tell you not to smoke for an hour. And don't do any heavy lifting with this arm for the rest of the day. Besides you don't want to mess up your nice red fleece.

I get up to leave and he tells me to have a good day, take it easy, do I want a snack, a muffin, or a a can of soda to take with me, etc. I walk back across the parking lot to my building, making sure to add just a little bit more hip action than needed in my walk, in case he's watching. I look down at the slip of paper they give you that has your pulse and your blood pressure reading on it. Written on the paper is a man's first name. Normally they don't write names on this paper. Is it his name? No phone number next to it though. I am the tiniest bit bummed, but still grinning as I walk back into my cubicle area. A coworker asks me how it went and I answer, it went fine...just fine. The coworker notices my grin and says, I guess so. Hey, it's been a long time since a nice looking man spent that much time talking to me when he didn't have to. I will take all of that I can get.