Just Thinking: We all have our claim to vein
We all have our strengths. Some people know that when they rise in the football stands to sing the national anthem before a game, fans around them inevitably will say, “Whoa! Your voice!”
Others have a knack for telling jokes. “So these two cows are talking in a field,” they’ll say, and even if this is in a funeral home, between the door and the flowers, everyone within earshot will smile expectantly.
Such people won’t mess it up, either. If I tried to tell this joke, I’d immediately have to stop and restart and say things like, “Wait, I forgot. The first cow mentioned mad cow disease, and then the second cow said …” until no one cares anymore.
Not talented joke-tellers. They’ll tell the joke smoothly through the punch line − “That’s why I’m glad I’m a penguin” − and will be rewarded with such guffaws that everyone will look at the little group having such a good time down there by the guest book. That’s OK. Calling hours tend to be somber occasions dotted by moments of hilarity, similar to grief itself.
I realized recently that I’m untalented in yet another way. While volunteering at the county fair, I watched admiringly while a booth tender across the way taught several children to juggle. One 8-year-old girl was an especially quick study. Within minutes, she was juggling three balls with her instructor, drawing applause from other booth workers and passersby.
Then the juggler invited me to try. Actually, he more or less promised he could teach me, the way a confident person might say, “Listen, I taught my cat to juggle; I can certainly teach you.”
He couldn’t, of course. I tried, for the same reason that high school students in the driver’s ed car try to steer straight − because their peers are sitting in the back seat, anticipating mayhem.
In my case, my peers were practically lined up, watching me toss the second ball too soon, or too low or at exactly the same time as the first one. I kept my eyes on everything but the objects in the air; I scrambled after loose balls like a chihuahua. I was, let’s face it, a juggling failure. No one said, “Whoa! What talent!”
But I’m just fine with that because I have my own strength, and no one can take it away from me. Not even I, in a fit of stage fright or overconfidence, can take it away from me because my strength is built in.
I have great veins.
I do, really. Not that I would know a great vein if I fell over one, probably while trying to juggle and tell a joke at the same time. When it comes to veins, I rely on the assessments of Red Cross phlebotomists. And their assessments are always, “Whoa. Those veins!”
I don’t take personal credit for the insides of my arms. I wish I could; I wish I could say, “Years of venous workouts have given me the veins of an 18-year-old − well-anchored, stable, bouncy to the touch,” but I can’t. I acknowledge my superior veins are a matter of luck, similar to a person with a perfect pitch, or someone with naturally curly hair.
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Still, you take your strengths where you find them. At my last donation appointment, when the Red Cross worker said, “Great veins,” I almost said the words along with her. Only with effort did I stop myself. (I try to be modest.)
“I just come here for the compliments,” I said instead.
In fact, my claim to vein excellence may be limited to my right arm. I rarely use my left arm to donate, and for all I know, a phlebotomist would take one look at it and say, “You call those veins?”
That’s why I value my right arm veins so much. Yo-Yo Ma has his cello; David Beckham has his World Cups; I have my veins. And while I might secretly envy those who worked hard for their acclaim, I’m grateful to have veins that make phlebotomists’ eyes light up.
Oh, and donate blood if you can. Truly, it saves lives.
Email Margo Bartlett at margo.bartlett@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on ThisWeek: Just Thinking: We all have our claim to vein
