There are so many ways to flip: back flip, front flip, flip the bird,(yes, being flippant) flip out (as in freak out), flip out (as in fall for - romantically speaking or as in "that is the coolest thing - ever!), flip a house (renovate and re-sell for profit), flip a coin (chance, fate?) - and much more I am sure. (Who can forget the hair flip?)
Whatever way you flip it, the act of "flipping" - whether it's literal or emotional - brings energy, dynamism and change to the person doing it.
AND you would never know from this "beginning", that these characters are going to end up on a Reality TV show.
"How many birds have been sacrificed to this death trap?” I mutter to myself. I am staring out of the sliding glass door to a large deck of a house for rent, for sale, for living and dying in the exurbs of New York City. I am staring out this false sense of security, this symbol of change, of possible carnage. Some birds don’t sense boundaries and end up getting hurt: some birds like me.
As if on cue, a tiny hummingbird flies toward me and I long to pull the door open, but for once my hands are paralyzed. Am I hoping that it will mistake the glass for open space? Could I be that cruel? As the bird gets closer - its ruby neck, exposed and vulnerable - my hands start to twitch into action and reach for the windowed door. My fingers tug, pulling the force up my arms and I give up. Unwilling to take my eyes off the hummingbird, I put my hands on the window, hoping that my physical presence will be enough of a boundary.
The hummingbird’s natural habitat is lush with trees, grass and even a pond. Why would it want to come inside? Go away birdie, I will silently. Stick with what you know, where it’s safe. Where you are safe.
Am I ready for this disaster? I mean, it’s the cycle of life, right? Its all happened before, and it will inevitably happen again.
Except that this time it doesn’t. The tiny beak makes an ell turn just in time and the air in my throat hisses with relief. It must have been loud because Janie calls out from the living room where she is trying to ‘visualize her own furniture’ - maybe she’s even imagining us all sitting on her couch. I can’t tear myself away from the window, where the hummingbird has come back and is staring at me, flapping it’s wings ferociously. What are you looking for, buddy?
“Indy? You okay?”
“Um, yeah,” I manage to say as she walks through the room.“This dining room is pretty sweet.”
“Come look at the bedrooms!” And she disappears.
I don’t want Derek to move to this house or any other in Westchester. I want him to stay living across the street from me in our little corner of Manhattan.
My hands move over my plaid skirt tapping out a rhythm, my purple Doc Martens stomp as I drum to Radiohead’s Creep. I may not be able to stand still, but at least I stay in one place.