As luck would have it, on New Year's Eve, one week later, the exact same situation was taking shape: Another fast-moving cold front was making landfall and had the accompanying squall line ahead of it, a carbon copy of Christmas Eve. This time, however, when dispatch tried to tell me it wasn't as bad as it looked and that others were making it through, I politely said, "No, thanks, I'm going to wait until there's at least 10 miles between me and those thunderstorms." Twenty miles is recommended, but I thought that might be too much for my dispatcher's weak heart. And that was it. I didn't get fired or yelled at, but most importantly, I didn't age seven freight-dog years like I did on Christmas Eve.