DNA All Over the Place

In case I haven’t made it clear, Mr. W and I eat a lot of cheese. A lot. Almost every time we’re together, some sort of cheese consumption takes place. What can I say, We Loves Us The Cheese.

Given my additional penchant for salami, I recently began worrying that I might have the cholesterol of a sumo wrestler.

So Mr. W got all industrious on me and ordered home cholesterol tests online for the two of us to take. They arrived last week, and Saturday night he looked at me mischievously and said, “Want to do our cholesterol test now?”

I hesitated. See, the test involves stabbing (fine, pricking) yourself. And in addition to not really enjoying having pain inflicted on me, I Hate the sight of my own blood. Actually, I’m not a fan of seeing other people’s blood either.

I made him promise to do all the hard work and let me avert my eyes.

He was extremely gentle and the lancer didn’t hurt all that bad. When my finger started to bleed, he wiped it with gauze—just as the directions instructed—and then began squeezing it into the little measurement receptacle. He squeezed and squeezed and the blood bead got bigger but it wouldn’t drop into the slot.

“Let’s do this on the floor,” he said relocating the measurement tray and pulling my arm so the force of gravity could drain (gallons) of blood out of my body. “Your blood is all over me,” he said, looking at his hands.

Finally, he got enough and moved on to prick his finger. Of course his spurted right out and landed in a perfect little heart-shaped shiny droplet in the tray. Show off.

As we wiped the remaining red streaks from our skin, a very startling thought occurred to me. “Did my blood get in your puncture hole?” I asked him. “ARE WE BROTHER AND SISTER NOW?”

Just in case you were wondering, both of us had very healthy cholesterol levels…and mine was lower than his. Winner!