That photo is not of me.

The woman in the photo is gone.

She made it into our middle age years, but not very far.

My loss of her too soon is the single thing that regularly reminds me to be grateful for every sign that I am getting older.

Those lines making meandering backroads (at least not highways) on my forehead.

The spreading network of "fine lines" -- as the anti-aging commercials put it -- around my eyes ... which I tend to zero in on instead of the nice-enough blue color of the eyes themselves.

The alarming cracking sounds that seem to boom from my knees every time I walk up the stairs.

These days, when I begin my self-critiques in front of the bathroom mirror, I stop myself and feel -- all the way into my bones -- a deep gratitude for the privilege of having each one of these Middle Ages (and eventually, the Old Ages) that she will never see, and that we will never share.

Losing her was a painful price to pay for perspective that should be obvious. But wherever she is – and I think she believed she would be somewhere, but her version of 'heaven' would probably have great music, good-looking men, a lot of road trips and an endless parade of bizarre strangers crossing her path – I think she's just glad I figured this out.

After all, in the Young Ages, the obvious things could be slapping us in the face and howling at us, and we still would not recognize them.

Maybe the higher profile of the obvious is another advantage of the Middle Ages?