Not in the sense that it is painful or difficult, but in the way you are expected to behave. If you are donating, you must not show any sign of weakness. It's like some tribal initiation ritual. So I'm sitting there, with a tube literally draining my precious bodily fluids through a hole in my arm, and it occurs to me that this is just uncomfortable enough to prevent me from doing my philosophy reading. I find that I just cannot concentrate on Michael Bratman's functional theory of intention when my veins are leaking. So I put down my book. Before I know it, the blood center staff are all over me like savannah hyenas on a sick gazelle. Am I okay? Do I feel faint? Would I like more water? No, I'm fine, it's just that feeling in my arm makes it hard to concentrate. They are not persuaded. As penance for my frailty, I must ritually cleanse myself by drinking liters of water and eating a half-pound of pretzels, the symbolic blood and body of some ancient sanguine deity. The gods appeased, I am finally allowed to leave.
Honestly, the only reason I keep going back there is because they always tell me I have beautiful veins. I'm such a sucker for flattery.
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