To the Phlebotomist

(AKA guy who took my blood today),

You were really nice. And actually pretty good looking. And when you asked that fatal question, you had no chance.

You asked what people normally ask when they find out I’m a transplant: “How do you like Utah?”

I tried to warn you.

“Are you sure you really want to know?”

You were polite and smiled and said, “It’s okay. I’m not a local.”

Well, that was your mistake. Actually, it was my mistake to not just nip the initial question in the bud and say, “Oh, it’s fine,” just like everyone does.

Instead, I gave you an earful that probably more than you ever wanted to know. And with each word that came out, I could feel the chances of you asking for my number dwindling taking a sudden swan dive into the Pit of Despair.

You graciously listened to all my mumblings and ramblings. You, as a Californian, knew how Utah culture was different. You even said that you felt the same way before you moved closer to campus. What a kind soul you are to let a girl talk your ear off like that.

I just wanted to say that I’m really not that negative. You just caught when right after a tough day at work…okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true, but I was really tired and you had just stuck an uncomfortable needle into my arm. I really don’t remember everything I said; I just rambled on about nothing. Even your questions about my book, The Princess Bride, caught me off guard, and I muddled through the answers.

I’m really a fun person. Really. I know, like, five people who think I'm hilarious. Just don’t ask me about my work, my living situation, my social life or anything of the like; those answers aren’t positive ones. But I need to learn to not be so honest so I don’t chase off nice people like you.

So, here’s to you, guy who could have made me the subject of one awesome 80s song. I’m pledging to be more positive in my conversations. And then maybe next time you take my blood, it will be a more pleasant experience for the both of us.