by Lydia Crawford
Startled by the disturbing sight beheld in the reflective surface of her bathroom wall, Laurel clutched the sides of the chilly porcelain basin as indignation lit her cheeks aflame and a warm salty mist collected inside her dainty wire-framed spectacles. This day was inevitable, she reasoned, but the timing could not have been worse. Images of goals not yet accomplished flashed in her mind; dreams of matrimony and motherhood squelched by pressures of familial responsibility. "Pull yourself together, Laurel," she whispered while drawing in a long, slow breath. "This is not the end of the world." Later, she would seek expert advice regarding proper tactics one might employ to resist the forces of nature, but for now she squared her shoulders, wound her left forefinger around the wiry silver cord - and yanked hard.
Lydia Crawford splits her time evenly between resisting and accepting the inevitable forces of nature.