A colleague recently told me I’m “an old man at heart.” I remember thinking that I was “gruff” maybe, perhaps even “brusque” at times, but an old man?

Pshaw, rubbish.

Yet, now I’m not so sure. Last night I had an experience that resulted in epiphany — I’m 35 going on 80. Around the 2 a.m. hour, I phoned in what was to be my very first noise complaint, and in so doing I officially reached old-fogeydom.

I’m stunned, though like any true codger might, I’m far from speechless and eager to harp about my noisy neighbor to boot. But before I do, my evening deserves a little background, context if you will that will make clear my moment of clarity. For it was a series of behaviors really, not just my climactic call to police, that convinced me of my rapidly aging state of mind.

Strangely enough, it begins with my feet. They’re cold, a lot. I can’t help but cringe and think what a sissy I am just for saying that. I don’t get cold, I’m the guy who roars around on a Harley Davidson in January. But it’s true, and last night began with a toasty fire in front of which I warmed my chilly digits.

To make matters worse, I had soup for dinner. Yup, soup for dinner while warming my feet in front of a fire and watching a History Channel program on the ingenuity of Roman infrastructure. Good grief, the evidence is becoming overwhelming. And I’m not even done.

I must also admit that I was in bed by 10 p.m. That’s about 30 minutes later than usual, but is nothing to brag about. Over the past few years, there’s been a steady progression from what had been my longtime customary midnight bedtime to 9:30 p.m. I do get up earlier, but it’s no excuse, not really. That’s what old people do — retire early and up at the crack of dawn.

Well, I was feeling good that I managed to stay awake later than usual — this feeling of age has been creeping up on me — and had just fallen asleep in front of the TV when at the edge of consciousness I noticed a faint buzzing. It got worse. And worse, and worse until I realized this was no cell phone vibrating with an incoming text message, but was in fact a guy in the neighborhood going nuts with a chain saw!

Old man, yeah right. Who wouldn’t complain about a dude sawing away in the middle of the night? This went on for hours, all the while getting louder and closer to the house until finally, scowling from my bedroom window, I spied the offending crew of well drillers with their big-rig truck. They were digging a hole in the middle of the night next to a house under construction.

Restraint broke down and I found myself muttering about “Fred” the driller and his inconsiderate crew while picking up the phone and calling the cops. The dispatcher was very kind and said an officer would do his best to investigate the disturbance. He even tried to call me back, though in one of the many mysteries of today’s technology the phone didn’t actually ring but instead sounded a message that a call had been missed. Go figure.

It was 2:30 a.m. by the time blessed silence returned to our quiet neck of the woods, but not for me. I was already busy, mentally writing this column and, in the process, coming to the conclusion that my friend just may be right after all, that I really am an old man at heart.

To that I say, “whatever.” I like toasty fires, warm soup, the History Channel and going to bed at 9:30 p.m. — so sue me.