The picture doesn’t tell a thousand words. That’s my new motto since I received a call from a concerned reader. You see, he had just finished reading my last month’s column and wanted to comment on a few personal health issues I had written about.

Please don’t get the wrong impression, I was flattered that he made the effort to contact me, but his opening comment left me speechless.

The conversation went something like this: “Hello Rob, Joe here. What happened to you?”

“Heart problems,” I responded.

“Must have been really bad if they won’t let you golf.”

“They were but I’m doing just fine now,” I answered back.

“You’re about my age, right? Sixty-one, sixty-two?”

There was a very long pause as I tried to digest what I had just heard. Maybe it was a bad connection but I thought I heard a SIX and a ONE. Put them together and that makes 61.

Those of you who know me will tell you I’m an extremely youthful 48 (in my head anyway, the birthday was last week – no presents please.) Sixty-one!

Hmm, I haven’t had the opportunity to meet the reader so it had to be my picture that he based his “guess my age” estimate on.

Anyway, he seemed genuine so I’m going to take the comment at face value. Then I started thinking about it. Maybe it is time to admit to myself that I can’t party all night.

Maybe it’s time to admit to myself that the real reason I shaved my mustache off was that I couldn’t keep up with the gray hairs.

The regulars at my local watering hole don’t set their clocks by my arrival every night anymore.

I’ve had the same case of Blue Light in my bar fridge for well over a month and I enjoy “sipping” a good glass of Merlot (speaking of which, have you tried “Grey Fox”? It’s the best $6.95 you’ll ever spend on a bottle of wine.)

In short, I think I’m finally slowing down.

‘Grow old gracefully’ was always going to be my motto. Maybe it’s that time.

There are advantages to admitting you’re getting older. I no longer feel the need to go out on a Friday night just because it’s a Friday night. I don’t have to be the last one to leave a party, nor the first to arrive. I drive the speed limit now, no more speed records to or from the family cottage. Cheap bar bills – two or three glasses of wine versus a bunch of beers – you do the math.

That’s not to say in the future that I can’t be tricked, of course. So make a note to call me before you sell your Labatt’s stock.

– Rob Wilkins is the publisher of Truck News and he can be reached at 416-510-5123.