CARLTON FLETCHER: Sorry, dudes, time waits for no one

You’re never too old to rock and roll If you’re too young to die.

— Jethro Tull

I saw a well-respected, seemingly well-adjusted — at least by reputation — guy I know slightly reduced by a single word to a self-pitying shell of his usual upbeat self recently.

After a mildish back-and-forth with a couple of tattooed representatives of Gen X — and, honestly, I didn’t catch the gist of their exchange — the man not so nicely invited the two guys to leave the vicinity, threatening a call to law enforcement.

The younger participants in the exchange put on what has become the “game face” of their generation: a smirk, built around a malevolent sneer. They held their ground for a count or two to accentuate their insolence, then sidled away with derisive laughs.

Before they departed, though, one of the pair offered a verbal jab that did a number on their foe: “Let’s bounce before old gramps here has a heart attack.”

The look on the man’s face spoke volumes. It was a crestfallen look of defeat. Being subjected to the “o-word,” it seems, was a little more than he could take.

Witnessing the exchange got me to thinking about the aging process. I, of course, am no spring chicken — I like to think of myself as a fall falcon — but I’ve never been one of those folks who dwells on the years passing by.

Living a life requires aging. It just does. It does not, however, require one to “act his or her age.” Settling in at a given point in life and writing off what happens afterward as insignificant has never been my approach. I love Pete Townsend’s words of generational angst, but I’d offer a minor change: “Hope I die before I feel old.”

Time’s passage affects people in funny ways. But I’ve found one of life’s universal ironies is the way we wish time away when we’re young … I can’t wait ‘til I’m 16 so I can drive. … I can’t wait until I’m 18 and an adult. … I can’t wait until I’m 21 and legal.

Within five to six years of passing those milestones, oddly enough, a large number of those who were in such a hurry to get to them find themselves — often desperately — seeking a way to slow time’s inexorable march. I’ve always laughed — more so now — at people in their late 20s and early 30s who talk about “getting old.”

Now, back to that initial encounter. I told the man so devastated at being called “old” by the disrespectful knuckleheads this story.

A couple of well-known radio “personalities” whose shtick included sarcastic commentary about anything outside their generation offered an unsolicited review of the surviving members of Led Zeppelin’s 2007 one-off show at London’s O2 Arena. Music fans were giddy with excitement after Robert Plant, Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones joined deceased drummer John Bonham’s kid Jason for that memorable show, and the reformed Zep did not disappoint. (Watch the video; it’s spectacular.)

The jocks’ take? “Who needs a bunch of old geezers playing geezer music? Those old dudes need to crawl off somewhere and quietly die.”

Within the next two years, as fate would have it, those self-proclaimed spokesmen for young America started worrying, on the air, about such issues as hair loss, their waning attractiveness to younger females and their inability to connect with the new music that “didn’t meet the standards” of their favorites.

Within three years of their on-air Zeppelin mockery, these edgy young spokesmen for their generation were unceremoniously booted off the air, victims of that age-old problem: losing touch with the target demographic.

When I heard of the pair’s banishment, I dug out the old “What goes around, comes around” retort. My wife’s way of putting it is probably a little better: Karma’s a b——.

My point? Well, there are a couple. One, forget about trying to slow time by pretending you’re something you’re not or by taking pot shots at the generation ahead of you. Go ahead, get your facelift if you must. Shell out the big bucks to keep Viagra in business if that’s what keeps you going.

But you’re still going to be 48 or 57 or 65 when you roll out of bed in the morning.

There’s absolutely no shame in wearing your wrinkles, showing your scars or reminiscing about Springsteen’s “Glory Days” when the time calls for it. Or not. But those things are still going to be part of you.

Two, if you, like the guy at the beginning of this, are ever accosted by some whippersnapper who thinks he can diminish you by calling you “old,” just smile at him knowingly. Rest assured, unless said whippersnapper meets an untimely demise, his day is coming. And he’ll be subjected, as all are, to doses of his own medication.

And that day is coming quicker than he’ll ever imagine. Time, as the singer sang, waits for no one.

Email Carlton Fletcher at [email protected].