Funny thing: any time I start feeling altruistic, I take a moment to ponder my motives, because I find altruistic people automatically suspicious.
But I do have one puzzling habit: I donate blood fairly often, despite a lifelong fear of needles. It started at the 1976 World Science Fiction Convention in Kansas City, where all registered blood donors were invited to attend a party and meet Robert Heinlein (a pal of my Mom’s.) Not only did I get to meet the man and shake his hand, all attendees at the party received a little pin. My mother remarked, “if you’re going to wear that, I hope you’re planning on donating blood again sometime.”
Thirty years later, I still give blood several times a year (although I misplaced the pin years ago, so I rarely get an opportunity to mention it.) I don’t suppose it’s because of any overwhelming passion for helping my fellow human beings, but because of an irrational desire to please two people (Heinlein and Mom) who are too dead to notice.
Oh well; who needs to be rational all the time?
