Bad seats? The crowd? The smell? The beach ball? All part of the fun. But going to a concert feels like root canal as you get older and crankier.

It’s not cell phones. It’s not clothing. It’s rock concerts. Is there anything that measures aging more than those?

Once, (and my “once” means the ’70s and early ’80s) there wasn’t a concert I wouldn’t go to. Billy Joel. Grateful Dead. Van Halen. Blondie. The Ramones. Dylan. Springsteen. All I needed was a ticket.

Finding a ride? Bad seats? The crowd? The smell? The beach ball? All that was part of the fun. I can’t recall a show where I didn’t come out saying, “That was great!”

But at some point, something changes. Don’t know why. It just does. The same way you can no longer eat a chili dog at 3 a.m. without severe consequences.

It’s like that.

Something turns. And things that never used to bother you bother you no end.

It starts with the traffic. Never used to notice. Maybe because your car was stuffed with college pals or your latest heartthrob, and you blasted the artist’s music to get in the mood.

Now, you sit in the non-moving exit lane, muttering the words “This is ridiculous.” Your radio is tuned to the traffic report. You tap your leg and check your watch.

Once you’ve reached the parking lot, and paid some exorbitant $30 fee — and again muttered, “This is ridiculous” — you join the mob trying to get through security. Again, I never recall this bothering us when we were younger. These days, we bounce on our toes to see which turnstile has the best flow.

Once inside, you find yourself sniffing. I don’t care who’s performing. It could be the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Someone is smoking dope. And what used to be a youthful, “Yeah! That makes it a concert!” is now a scrunched face and an eye roll and one of those “I hope they’re not driving” comments.

And then the show starts.

An Iraqi refugee’s painful deportation story. It’s more complicated than you think.

How long do you want to live?

Again, when we were younger, the first blasted notes were all that mattered. You high-fived your concert-mates as if the opening number was handpicked for you. But these days, the song is less important than the six rows in front of you that just leaped to their feet, and now all you can see is their heads.

And when you stand, you still can’t see the stage, because everyone is holding up a cell phone or iPad and filming the show. Or…