If I think I possess the slightest hint of manliness, the notion can be shredded by going for a blood test. Like I did this morning. The nurse wraps a tournequet around my upper arm, asks me to clench my fist (“Uh, not so tight”), and then begins tapping my forearm, searching for a vein. Tap tap tap tap. Can’t find one. Let’s try the other arm. Tap tap tap tap. Hmmm. Oh, there’s one.

Meanwhile, I avert my gaze, unable to watch, feeling just a bit light-headed. Already.

“I’ll use a baby needle,” she tells me with a smile. Because I’ve been telling her what a wimp I am, and that my otherwise understanding wife laughs at my wimpdom when confronted with blood tests.

I feel the poke. I try to keep my mind on something else; don’t remember what. Then another poke. “Okay, you’re done,” she says.

“That was easy,” I say with bravado.

And then a cloud descends. I feel faint. The nurse must have drained at least a couple quarts from my arm. She tells me to cough deeply to increase blood pressure, and to put my head back. I comply. Another nurse brings me a glass of water. “You’re not the first to feel this way,” they tell me. Yeah, right. They keep talking to me. Don’t be in a hurry. Would it help to lay down? We have a bed in another room? Looks like your color is coming back. Don’t leave until you’re ready. We don’t want you fainting in the car. These are women who have had babies, trying to keep a grown many from keeling over because he got poked with a needle.

About 15 minutes later, I feel good enough to stand, which I do bravely. And once standing, I feel good enough to leave. I thank the kind ladies, then head out to my car. They told me I should go get something to eat, something sugary. So I went to Bob Evans and ordered pancakes.