Lifestyle
Are You the Only One Who’s Broke? Or Is It ‘Money Dysmorphia’?
On Instagram feeds, martini glasses clink in what feels like a never-ending loop. Photo carousels from nights out show low-lit steakhouses, tartare and soufflés, Luxardo cherries. (What, in this economy, is screaming Luxardo cherries?) A roommate’s random co-worker is somehow lounging on yet another cabana in yet another tropical bathing suit. (Who owns that many bathing suits?) A co-worker’s random roommate is inexplicably trying out a new Bitcoin-powered bathhouse.
Just one click away is the news: flip-flopping on tariffs that could hit iPhones, T-shirts, backpacks and toothbrushes. There are wildly zigzagging red lines on market charts and somber television newscasters with panicked voices talking about retirement savings, which is angst-inducing even for people decades away from retirement.
“Phone-eats-first type of food, whatever viral sweater is going around on TikTok, the new work bag,” said Devin Walsh, 25, who lives in New York and works in marketing, listing the tempting purchases that flit across her Instagram, even, stubbornly, this past week. “Meanwhile, everyone is referencing the Great Depression.”
It’s a dizzying time to be a 20-something inundated by social media feeds flashing other people’s trips and restaurant reservations, which feel more over-the-top than ever, thanks to what trend forecasters call the “boom boom aesthetic.” It’s a recent embrace, by fashion labels, influencers and ordinary spenders, of lavish old-money consumption, like Gordon Gekko-inspired suits and endless (once verboten) furs.
Many young people are plagued by pangs of economic self-doubt, telling friends or therapists that they can’t keep up with the Joneses (and what the Joneses are posting on Instagram). Others are struggling to save, and then making impulse buys that leave them feeling anxious or guilty, that spending hangover from an “oh why not” pair of shoes.
“You see a social media post and you’re like, ‘Maybe I’m doing something wrong,’” said Veronica Holloway, 27, a data analyst who lives in Chicago. “Like somehow I must be being irresponsible if I’m not able to spend like this.”
The resulting unease is leading to what financial planners call “money dysmorphia.” A sibling of the term “body dysmorphia,” meaning people who look in the mirror and do not see what’s really there, it refers to people who have a distorted view of their own financial well-being. It’s a mind-bending split-screen view of reality.
“You’re in a position where you don’t believe you have enough money, even though the numbers say you’re OK,” said Aja Evans, a financial therapist with some clients who struggle with dysmorphia. “It’s easy for people to create a narrative around what they’re seeing online — they’re like, ‘Oh my God, everyone is going away for spring break, I’m the only one who is staying home.’”
These perceptions, unhinged from reality, lead some to hold back on spending unnecessarily. It could lead others to overspend, sometimes enabled by “buy now, pay later” technologies; the average Gen Z consumer holds roughly $3,500 in credit card debt, according to data from Experian. A 2024 study conducted by Qualtrics found that nearly a third of all Americans reported feeling money dysmorphia, including 43 percent of Gen Z.
For Ms. Holloway, this disquieting uncertainty about spending started in childhood, after both her parents lost their jobs in the 2008 financial crisis. Her family lived below the poverty line, she said. Ms. Holloway thought twice about even necessary expenses. When she bought a pair of $130 sneakers for her high school cross country team, she spent a week feeling sick to her stomach.
She has never been able to fully shake her worries, even now that she has a paycheck that more than covers her rent and meals. It does not help that her social media acts as a highlight reel of friends’ expenses, from flashy dinners to acrylic nails.
What’s known as the hemline theory says that when the economy becomes stronger, skirts lengths become shorter; boom times mean people want to party. A corollary that some economists and sociologists have found is that when the economy turns downward, tastes for little luxuries sometimes grow. During the 2008 financial crisis, some scholars reported seeing the “Lipstick Effect,” which was consumers spending more on small cosmetic items, perhaps as a way to feel slightly better about the state of the world, or at least about their faces. And in the early 1980s, when the economy cratered, fashion turned gaudy and over-the-top. One popular poster from the time shows a man in a tweed jacket and English riding pants leaning against a Rolls-Royce, cocktail glass in the air.
“That display of preppy-style wealth came during the worst economic recession since the 1930s,” said Douglas Rossinow, a historian and the author of “The Reagan Era.”
That tendency toward crisis-inflected lipstick spending has been layered on top of a financial reality that is already confusing for young people. For years, millennials were living with a warped sense of financial security because of venture capital money essentially subsidizing DoorDash deliveries and Uber rides. Social media invites people to post only their most hard-to-get dinner reservations and “White Lotus”-reminiscent beach travel. Now the economic picture is particularly uncertain, and the Instagram aesthetic is particularly luxurious.
“There was this more subdued, minimal norm-core look of the 2010s where people were trying to occlude their power or wealth — which came out of Silicon Valley and its casual approach to the workplace — that has fallen out of favor,” said the trend forecaster Sean Monahan.
Mr. Monahan, who coined the term “boom boom aesthetic” in December, has tracked a recent surge in posts of flashy finery: caviar bumps, broad-shouldered suits, Chateau Marmont parties, 1980s-style decadence. “People feel like they’re participating in status games very explicitly,” he said. “The social hierarchy is in flux.”
Dessie DiMino, a tech worker, notices when friends post pictures from ski resorts and music festivals. She has had to ratchet up the voice in her head reminding herself to save as she follows headlines about economic uncertainty and the tariffs that seemed poised to hit her daily spending, including grocery items like coffee beans and chocolate.
“I don’t want to just stop doing everything, but I know there are days I should really bite the bullet and stay home,” said Ms. DiMino, 27.
To Ms. Walsh, the marketing employee from New York, the draw toward prudence feels especially tricky for her generation because of the shared sense that they’re living under a cloud of incessant crisis — Covid-19, climate change, political turbulence. Sometimes, she tells her mother, it’s hard to muster the discipline to save when she keeps hearing that the sky is falling.
“We’re more inclined to spend frivolously because of this looming main character energy of ‘The world is going to end anyway,’” Ms. Walsh said. “What are we saving for?”
In February, she splurged on hosting a Valentine’s Day party in her Hell’s Kitchen apartment, spending hundreds of dollars on heart-shaped sunglasses that she mounted to the wall to feel like a Sunglass Hut, a sink filled with alcohol and a new $150 heart-printed dress. “Was it a rational use of funds?” she said. “Maybe not.”
Financial planners, especially those who work with young people, are trying to help clients who are feeling throttled by these economic shifts. Some of these clients are buying up new blazers and vacations as a balm for their broader sense of anxiety about where the economy is headed. Others are avoiding even reasonable purchases.
“I work with somebody who started cheaping out on groceries, even though her family’s financial future doesn’t hang on a trip to Whole Foods,” said Matt Lundquist, a therapist in Manhattan. “The inverse end of that is people being much more pleasure seeking — getting the Chanel bag, the ‘Oh forget it, I’ve been wanting these shoes.’”
Kara Pérez, who founded an organization that educates women on managing finances, has seen this uncertainty reshape her clients’ views on class. Some are overwhelmed by the affluence they see on social media, and it makes them lose sense of whether or not they are financially comfortable. Ms. Pérez said some clients whom she would describe as firmly middle class no longer saw themselves that way.
“A lot of people are like, ‘I’m not Kim Kardashian, I’m not Elon Musk, therefore I am broke,’” Ms. Pérez said.
Ms. Pérez also sees this sentiment in comments that users leave on her social media page. On TikTok, where Ms. Pérez calls herself a personal finance expert, she’s forgiving of those who reply to her posts amid the chaos of the moment, effectively saying: “There’s no point in saving babe, we’re not going to retire. It’s OK to spend extravagantly now.”
Julia Demaree Nikhinson/AP
A federal judge has blocked President Trump from adding his name to the Kennedy Center, saying that the Washington, D.C. arts complex was named for the late president John F. Kennedy. In a ruling on Friday, the judge also temporarily blocked the administration from closing the Kennedy Center for a planned two-year renovation that was slated to begin in July.
U.S. District Court Judge Christopher Cooper wrote in his ruling that: “The Kennedy Center’s organic statute makes crystal clear that the Center is to be named for President Kennedy, and it cannot bear any other formal name or public memorial based on the Board’s unilateral say-so. Congress gave the Kennedy Center its name, and only Congress can change it.”
A Kennedy Center spokesperson told NPR in an email Friday afternoon that it will appeal the decision. Roma Daravi, vice president of public relations for the complex, wrote: “We will review the decision carefully though the reality remains — the Center requires an urgent and significant restoration – a truth that even the plaintiff acknowledges. With $257 million secured by President Trump and approved by Congress, the resources are in place and we remain committed to pursuing every lawful avenue to ensure the Trump Kennedy Center is restored as a national cultural landmark for all Americans to enjoy.”
NPR has requested comment from the White House, but did not receive an immediate reply.
As part of his ruling, Judge Cooper ordered that all signage and online materials referring to the “Donald J. Trump and John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts,” the “Trump Kennedy Center,” or anything similar must be removed within 14 days.
The judge also blocked, for now, plans to close the Kennedy Center for two years of renovations. Trump and the center’s current voting board members – all of whom were selected by the president, who also became chairman of the center last year – had planned to start the renovations in early July, just after the 250th anniversary celebrations. In his 94-page ruling, Judge Cooper called the renovation plans “murky,” and wrote: “None of the board members had sufficient information in advance of the March 16 meeting to make a well-considered decision to close the center.” The center has been winding down its programming and has already dismissed most of its programming staff.
Referring to a Truth Social post written by President Trump in February, the judge also wrote: “There was no ‘one year review of the Trump Kennedy Center, that has taken place with Contractors, Musical Experts, Art Institutions, and other Advisors and Consultants, deciding between’ complete and partial closure, as President Trump claimed.”
Cooper’s ruling resulted from a lawsuit filed in March by Rep. Joyce Beatty of Ohio, an ex-officio member of the Kennedy Center board whose voting rights there were stripped last year.
The ruling does not prevent the Kennedy Center’s board from a future closure, but the judge said that it should do so only after the board has “sufficient information to make a considered, independent decision, taking account of its obligation to both maintain and operate a premiere arts venue and its solemn duty to memorialize a fallen President.”
Three years after my second divorce, with the help of a dating app, I went on 53 first dates in one summer. Fifty-three times, I put on my first-date uniform (nice but not trying too hard), flat-ironed my hair and texted my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong.
I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet. I kept track of what I wore and what stories we shared to avoid repeating myself in case there was a second or third date. There were exploratory follow-up dates, but it usually only took one to know.
The coffees and lunches and dinners of that season flicker in my mind like a rom-com video montage. There were some average dates, plenty of nice-guy, zero-chemistry dates, but a few stand out.
Here are the notables.
There was the extremely tall, minor league baseball player I met at BJ’s in Burbank. He said no more than four words to me the entire meal, but managed to chat up our waitress. I believe he walked me to my car and went back for her number.
The quiet and irritable TV editor I met at Guelaguetza on Olympic Boulevard. We ordered the chicken mole and chapulines. During the meal, he had a panic attack and excused himself to call his therapist. He actually told me this.
The experimental-video director with the white faux hawk I met at Go Get Em Tiger in East Hollywood. He spent the date in an hourlong monologue about his ex-wife Julia, stopping only to show me many, many photos of Julia.
A young man, originally from Phoenix, asked to meet at Soot Bull Jip on 8th Street. A struggling writer-actor-production assistant, he confided that he had looked up my name on Internet Movie Database and noticed that I was a producer. He then proceeded to pitch me an animated children’s show about singing giraffes. He also asked for a ride to Vons. I declined both.
The screenwriter I met at République who, based on his startling non-resemblance to his photo, had obviously posted a picture of someone else on his profile. He brought me three mixed CDs of music based on what he “knew” I would like. It was all Radiohead and Elliott Smith. I adjusted my dating profile because I was apparently coming off as depressed.
There was the nervous and uptight English tutor, with a script in turn-around and a famous roommate, that I met at a Starbucks in Koreatown. This guy corrected my grammar within the first five minutes of our introduction. Then, he proceeded to inform me that rather than be put off by this, I should be grateful for the new information so I could fix my error and not appear to be uneducated.
The trendy, bearded sports photographer I met for a late-night dinner at Fred 62 in Los Feliz. I had high hopes for this guy, and we made plans for a second date. But then things started unraveling once we realized I had already dated his younger brother.
There was also the suave (Hand kiss? Really?) and extremely tan French tennis pro I crossed La Cienega Boulevard for and met for lunch at Thai Vegan in Santa Monica. He was on a nonstop series of calls on his cellphone during the entire meal and then asked for a second date. I said, “Non, merci.”
When describing these guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, it was better not to learn their names.
Due to a story he had shared with me via email, date No. 53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment. Before Naked Drummer came to meet me for our first date, he called at the last minute and said the following:
“I want to recap. I just turned 30. I am currently living with my mother. I play guitar in an alternative folk band. I have a semi-crappy temp job at Disney with no benefits. I drive a green ’97 Plymouth Grand Voyager minivan that smells like weed. If you would like to change your mind about this whole dinner thing, now is your chance.” He described himself as tall, dark and tall.
For some reason, I broke many of my first date “safety rules” with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went for dinner at Noshi Sushi on Beverly Boulevard. None of that is prudent behavior, and I do not recommend any of it except the chu toro.
Naked Drummer was a funny, smart, nice Jewish boy who had been touring in bands in that Grand Voyager since college graduation. On the first date, we bonded over takuwan rolls and our histories as teenage goths. My goth uniform included black Maybelline eyeliner I used a lighter to heat the tip with before application. His goth uniform included an olive-green trench coat he borrowed from his mom. We were a match made in Joy Division heaven. He confided he was an Insane Clown Posse Juggalo, I intimated I was in the Kiss Army. (We were both lying about those last two.)
Reader, I married him.
The author is a former writer, director and producer for television. She and Mr. Rosenberg live in South Pasadena. She’s on Instagram: @smacksy.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
Poppy Liu wants to remind you how revolutionary I Love Boosters is : Bullseye with Jesse Thorn
I Love Boosters starts like a fun heist movie. There’s a gang of cool ladies from the Bay Area who steal clothes from high-end designers and sell them at a steep discount to their friends and neighbors. But I Love Boosters is also a Boots Riley movie. The film is surreal and bombastic, branching out in a thousand directions and traversing a dozen genres. So it can’t really stay a heist movie.
Poppy Liu drives that change more than pretty much any other character in the film. She plays Jianhu, a garment worker in China who joins the gang and brings with her a bonkers new wrinkle to the story. It’s a role Poppy was made for. She’s made her career playing confident, somewhat unhinged weirdos. She was cast in a lead role in the 2019 sitcom Sunnyside, had other parts on Better Call Saul, The After Party, and Hacks.
Liu joins us to talk about starring in I Love Boosters and the message that she hopes audiences take away from the film. She also chats with us about her upbringing in Minnesota, how she got into comedy acting, her role on Hacks, and much more.
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