Before first light on Wednesday morning I backed out of my garage to find myself in a sea of poufy swirling flakes that look so enticing on Christmas cards, and so infinitely regrettable on the roads. I wasn’t alone in this. A tyrannosaurus rex of a storm had grumbled across much of the United States, and by some reports nearly  70% of the country received a late delivery of White Christmas. A storm like that is seldom much for stealthy sneaking, on account of its giant feet and ear-splitting roar, so I’m certain the warnings would have been all over the radio, tv, and internet, yet it still managed to get the drop on me. The night before I had slogged into bed without a thought to weather, apart from a passive recognition of the charming rain pattering outside my bedroom windows. It’s February, so that right there should have been a clue to take a gander at the meteorological report, but I was warm and sleepy, and reaching for my phone would have taken all kinds of effort.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I had stayed up far too late on Tuesday night, so when my alarm cracked the silence Wednesday morning, it was awfully easy to hit the snooze button . . . and then hit it again, just to make sure that stupid clock knew I could not be bullied. So it was that I headed out for work with my hair done, my five-ton satchel, and absolutely zero minutes to spare, with no one to blame but myself. That’s when I first noticed the snow.

I wasn’t unduly concerned at that moment. I live on a mountain bench, which means that a hefty snowfall in my driveway isn’t necessarily indicative of a mess below, so I backed out and prayed for safety as I often do, then toodled off into the darkness, confident that all would be well. At this point I still had a chance to check that weather report, but I had stuff to do. In hindsight I really should have hit the snooze bar 48 more times, because instead of getting better, things only got worse.

I-15 wasn’t too bad. It was slower than usual, but I figured that a few minutes late was an acceptable price to pay for arriving with all my blood still in the tank. However, things took a turn at the cutoff to the beltway.

Five miles per hour.

It was 19° and I was sweating. First period is my prep, so I didn’t have a class, but I did have a meeting I Could Not Miss! I thought of my phone and all it could do to get me out of my jam, which is where the boxing match started: Me vs. Myself. Call the school. Don’t call the school. You idiot, don’t touch your phone when you’re driving . . . I won’t go on, but there was a great deal more in the same vein. My hand even went so far as to pluck up my phone at one point, only to have Me plant Myself a facer and ashamedly put it down again. But ten minutes later Me got worried about the people I was letting down, and Myself came in swinging to bloody Me’s nose. All the harping I’ve done at my kids about not using their phones while driving, and here I was two hypocrites fighting in the car. In the end the better angel won, and I decided to stick to my guns and let the snow fall where it may. Just to be safe, I set my phone where I couldn’t see it, because I had realized that, under certain circumstances, Me and Myself are only marginally trustworthy.