As I was in the shower on Monday, I realized that between the creaking, bloating, aching and bulging that is every moment of the fifth decade of my life, there is very little left for me to do with the rest of my time on the earth — except possibly to hope to perform at the halftime show at the Super Bowl in about 20 years, like the The Who did last Sunday.

I, like so many other geezers, was rather excited to see The Who as the Super Bowl’s XLIV halftime extravaganza. Unfortunately, I was also a little disappointed, shortly thereafter. Now I knew going into the event that years of sex, drugs and rock’n roll would take its toll on the human body and I really didn’t expect to see the same band from 1964 (or ‘74, or ‘84 or ‘94 or ...). However, I was still unprepared for my son’s comment directed at the TV — “Tell grampa to keep his shirt on for God’s sake.”

I then started to do the math.

When The Who struck gold with their 1965 hit “My Generation” the best quarterback in the world was also a Colt in the prime of his career, but it wasn’t Peyton Manning it was — John Unitas. Roger Maris was still the single season home run king then. Mark McGwire or Barry Bonds were yet to be toilet trained, let alone playing t-ball.

By the time The Who headlined at the iconic Monterey Pop Festival in 1967, the Super Bowl champion Saints were not yet a franchise. In fact Peyton’s father, legendary Saints’ quarterback Archie Manning was still chasing co-eds around the campus at Ole Miss (probably while listening to The Who).

My daughter asked if Who guitarist Pete Townshend was the same age as Grammy? I said “No, she was born at the beginning of World War II; he wasn’t born until after Patton and the Allies had crossed the Rhine.”

“Was that before cell phones?” she asked. “Honey, that was before telephones,” I responded.

I have noticed a trend in the years since Janet Jackson’s breast accidentally escaped and bounded out and across the Super Bowl stage like a spaniel pup.

From that point on, the network brass have given us a collection of geriatric crooners one step away from their free golf membership at The Villages. I think it is safe to say that if Mick Jagger or Paul McCartney would have had the same type of wardrobe malfunction as Jackson had, we would have been too busy diving under the couch in fear and loathing to call the FCC and complain.

Now look, there is nothing wrong with enjoying one’s golden years, but I think The Who’s performance really brings up the bigger question — what do you do with old rock stars? It is not an issue that we have had to face before. Old ballplayers generally know when it is time to hang up the cleats (or at least know when to retire, move on to the Jets, retire, then move on to the Vikings). They see their skills diminish and say, “I would rather try to hit a golf ball 320 yards than be hit by someone 320 lbs.”

It is just the circle of life.

However, for some reason rock stars see things differently. They must lack the genetic make-up that allows them to understand that if they are the only ones at at Red Lobster in Fort Myers wearing 7-inch heels and spandex tights, please don’t try to order the early-bird senior special at 4:15 p.m. — It is just against the natural order of things.

I’m going to go out on a limb and predict that we will have Elton John and Billy Joel performing at next year’s shin dig in Dallas.

There they will be, creaking, aged, bloated, bulging and wearing enough make-up to look like they are two hours late for their own wake, all while banging out the tunes that were tearing up the charts when Nixon resigned — but I’ll still be watching.

And be secretly hoping that they are looking for a back-up guitarist — because I am available.

Heck, at 46, I’ll be the youngest one there (unless Brett Favre happens to be still playing).

nTodd Lancaster, sports editor here for the last nine years, is looking forward to Valentine’s Day weekend. He plans to spend quality time with his dog Trixie.