“Finally, I will have a war story,” I told myself early yesterday.

Seriously, all my friends have them—tales of knee replacement, hip and shoulder replacement, ankle replacement (did you know they replace ankles?).

These people spin their yarns with all the drama of war veterans, looking admiringly at one another as they explain in detail the horrors of post-op physical therapy. And I’ve looked on with similar admiration, even a bit of envy. My mettle has never been tested like that.

Until yesterday—when a perfectly normal looking, young lady in a green coat sliced my ankle with her scalpel. Then, the skin cancer gone, she sent me home high on Lidocaine with only a slight limp to show for the experience.

Until 3:00 this morning—when flames emerged from under the bandage and I got up in search of Tylenol to find my leg no longer capable of a limp. Rather, I drug it behind the good one like those TV monsters.

Anyway, I’m cured. Keep your war stories. I’m quite content to be a pampered, if cowardly civilian.