Buffering, but Make It Aesthetic

Because if you’re going to disassociate, you might as well do it in style.

You know that feeling when your body is still moving through space? Doing dishes, answering texts, putting your kids to bed — but internally, you’re stuck inside that little spinning wheel?

That’s me this week.

Some news came in.

The kind that makes your stomach drop and your brain start whispering, “shhh, not now.”

The kind that rearranges things. Demands clarity, action and some heavy-ass grown-up decisions.

But instead of falling apart or doing anything remotely productive, I… paused.

Not in a peaceful, grounded, “just taking a beat” kind of way….

More like the numb, dissociative kind — where you’re upright, breathing… but not really here.

When you’re technically functioning, but internally you’re stuck, spinning…buffering.

Emotionally, mentally and spiritually frozen.

Smiling when needed.

Parenting on autopilot, with just enough warmth to pass as present.

But miles away from myself.

So I did what any emotionally paralyzed adult does: I wandered into the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge for three full minutes as if it might hand me a solution, or at the very least, a game plan — wrapped in cheese.

I played with my daughter’s slime after she went to bed. Just sat there, alone, squishing neon goo between my fingers like it was some kind of meditation.

(It wasn’t. It smelled like fake watermelon and fused itself to my shirt. RIP to my favorite concert tee. Gone but not forgotten.)

Then came the home decor rabbit hole. I spent hours spiraling over paint swatches, searching for the perfect moody green for the dining room.

Not too sage. Not too teal.

Definitely not that soft mint that says, “We’re calming down now.”

No. I was going for impact.

I wanted a green that announces itself. The kind of green that would make your mother-in-law nervous and your gay best friend weep with joy.

A dripping-in-drama green. A green that doesn’t whisper, it purrs.

Deep, decadent, unapologetic.

Maximalist.

Like velvet curtains at an Italian opera house.

Like absinthe in a cut-crystal glass.

Like I designed the room to have thoughts and opinions of its own.

I didn’t want something polite. I wanted a wall that makes a statement just by existing.

Something that says, yes, I am emotionally overwhelmed — but I’m doing it in a room with flair.

This is not a green for minimalists.

This is a green for someone who may or may not be spiraling, but who refuse to spiral in beige.

And then I planned a girls trip for our 40th we’ve been talking about since we turned 30, back when we believed that by now, we’d have way more money and time than we do.

I planned the kind of vacation that’s so far out of our price range, I’d need a cosigner just to think about it.

Private villa. Plunge pool. Spa menu that promises emotional rebirth via exfoliation.

Basically a White Lotus escape — minus the murder.

Though my inbox is definitely out for blood.

And in this fantasy, of course, Jennifer Coolidge is there. Floating by in a silk caftan, clutching a martini and whisper-screaming, “Something feels off…I think the gays are trying to kill me!”

Honestly Jen…Same.

Except it’s not the gays.

It’s my calendar and the 17 browser tabs I left open to Essex Green paint variations at 1am.

She sits down next to me in the hot tub, squints into the distance, and says, “You just seem... really tired, but in like, a beautiful way.”

I nod, because I’m tired. In the kind of way that seeps into your bones. The kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix.

Then she hands me a Negroni and tells me “You should run away from your life for a little while.”

“Just a little, babe. Like… sneak out the back. No one will even notice.”

And I believe her. For a minute, I actually believe her.

I sink a little deeper into the water, let the bubbles blur the edges, and pretend that I don’t have responsibilities, or deadlines, or that one email I’ve been avoiding for 5 days.

I pretend this version of me is real.

The one who drinks cocktails in silence.

The one who feels held by the world, instead of bracing for it.

But then the villa fades and Jennifer floats off into the ether, clutching her martini and mouthing something about trusting no one.

Then I’m back.

Back on my sofa scrolling through YouTube for updates on the Diddy trial (that shit is insane by the way,) surrounded by the faint smell of fake watermelon scented slime and dread.

This week it’s back-to-back Teams calls, deadlines I’m pretending aren’t real and a calendar full of obligations I agreed to when I was feeling social.

But I’m still buffering.

Still wondering if this Green is too bold for someone quietly disassociating in my pajamas.

—

The truth is, the news knocked something loose.

Not in a dramatic falling-to-the-floor kind of way, but a quiet internal collapse. The kind that happens when your brain knows their’s a lot to process…a lot of pain, a lot to feel.

But not enough capacity to do any of it.

So instead, I spiral over paint. I plan totally out-of-touch luxury vacations. I pretend Jennifer Coolidge is my spirit guide — because the alternative is staring too directly at the thing itself.

I am not ready for that. Not yet.

So I do what I always do when life feels too big:

I freeze.

I fantasize.

I keep moving just enough not to fall apart.

Call it a coping mechanism.

Call it a survival tactic

Call it buffering…

Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel ready.

Maybe I’ll stop spinning.

Maybe I just need to refresh the page.