For months, I’ve been planning a road trip down South to see my girlfriends, some of whom I haven’t seen in 15 years. We’re all women now. We have careers, families. We’re interesting. We’re funny. We keep up on Facebook, but I want to learn more about their rich, sweet lives.

Now, on the eve of my departure, the forecast calls for more snow. Bloody, wretched snow. I would postpone a day, but the plans of six people — six families — would be disrupted.

The snow has upended life for a month now: Commuting is more difficult, even as the melt begins. I can’t remember the last time I ran. The dog misses chasing after the Frisbee each afternoon; maybe just as much as I do. I can’t remember what my once-beautiful yard looked like. We lost a forgotten cedar in the corner of the front yard. Our magnolia’s branches are scattered about, much like broken doll arms. I worry the courtyard’s plants will not find salvation.

Such is Madame Winter’s wrath.

If I leave after deadline I can beat some of the snow, maybe all of it. I should be able to reach the state line before dawn. So I’ll travel in the dead of night, down I-95, in search of better weather and friends I need to know again.