Lifestyle
The Virtual Meeting That Started It All

Sydney Chineze Mokel began working at the Conservation Law Foundation in Boston in April 2020. Since she couldn’t meet her co-workers in person because of the pandemic, she asked a dozen of them for virtual coffee dates.
Tommaso Elijah Wagner was the only one who booked a full hour.
“What are we going to talk about for that long?” she said she had wondered.
As it turned out, they found quite a bit to discuss, including the fact that both had studied Mandarin in college. At the foundation, she was working as a foundation relations coordinator; he was a program assistant.
The two, both 28, didn’t actually meet face to face until Halloween, when they were invited by a co-worker to attend the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, where masks were mandatory and distancing was recommended.
Their collaboration on a staff initiative during Black History Month in February 2021 had them discussing Black joy and Afrofuturism and meeting in person at Kung Fu Tea, near Harvard Square in Cambridge, Mass., to exchange books. (She lent him “I Wonder as I Wander: An Autobiographical Journey,” by Langston Hughes; he lent her “The Fifth Season” by N.K. Jemisin.)
At their third book swap, in April, they met at the Loring Greenough House in the Boston neighborhood of Jamaica Plain. Mr. Wagner brought homemade iced tea, while Ms. Mokel brought cookies she had baked.
“I realized I had a raging crush on him that just appeared out of nowhere,” Ms. Mokel, who goes by Chi, said. At the end of that third meeting, she asked if their next hangout could be a date.
They planned to visit the Museum of Fine Arts a week later, followed by a dinner at Thaitation, a restaurant in the Fenway neighborhood. Mr. Wagner decided he didn’t want to wait that long. Ms. Mokel was having a yard sale, and a day or two before their date, he stopped by.
They soon found that they “fell into these rhythms that complemented each other,” Ms. Mokel said.
While Ms. Mokel was already sure of her feelings for Mr. Wagner, their relationship was tested in late August 2021, when Ms. Mokel faced a hellish move from her home in Jamaica Plain to Cambridge. Mr. Wagner proved his mettle, getting out of bed at 6 a.m. to pilot the U-Haul. He brought her candy, too.
[Click here to binge read this week’s featured couples.]
Two years later, In September 2023, she moved in with Mr. Wagner, to Somerville, Mass., where they live today. They proposed to each other the following month.
Mr. Wagner recreated their third book swap, but put a ring inside the book at the Loring Greenough House, while Ms. Mokel had friends and family gather in their apartment as a surprise — both in person and on Zoom — for when they returned.
Though Ms. Mokel had taken a new job in December 2022, most of their colleagues only learned of their relationship after they were engaged.
“I love how grounded Chi is, her deep knowledge of herself and her confidence in the person she is,” Mr. Wagner said. “I love her laugh, her eyes, and her smile.”
Ms. Mokel is the associate director of foundation relations at the Museum of Science in Boston. She has a bachelor’s degree from Northeastern University in international affairs.
Mr. Wagner is studying for a master’s degree in urban planning and policy at Northeastern and is an intern at the Boston-based Utile Architecture & Planning. He has a bachelor’s degree in environmental policy from Colby College.
Ms. Mokel’s father is a Nigerian immigrant of the Igbo tribe and her mother is African-American; she was raised Episcopalian. Mr. Wagner’s mother is of Jewish and Chinese ancestry, while his father is of English and German descent. His mother is culturally Jewish, while his father, who was an Episcopalian, is now a Buddhist.
The couple noticed similarities in Jewish and Igbo traditions — the shared reverence for humor and storytelling — and sought to incorporate both cultures into their wedding ceremony.
They were married in front of 235 guests at Robbins Memorial Town Hall in Arlington, Mass., on March 8, by Rabbi Jen Gubitz, the founder of Modern Jewish Couples, an organization catering to interfaith and intercultural partners. The pair wore western dress for the ceremony — the bride in a vintage white gown she had bought secondhand on Poshmark — and changed into a Nigerian aso ebi dress, in forest green and gold, for the reception.
Appetizers included hot and sour soup and egg rolls, potato knishes and akara, Nigerian black-eyed pea fritters.
Before dinner, the bride’s oldest uncle blessed a kola nut, an Igbo tradition symbolizing unity. The couple danced the hora to Harry Belafonte’s “Hava Nagila,” as guests showered the couple with cash, a Nigerian wedding tradition known as the money spray.
“Tommaso is a charming mix of sweet and stubborn,” Ms. Mokel said. “Also, he has joined my family easily with an openness to embracing new cultural traditions and foods.”

Lifestyle
Is Spring Break in Houston a #RecessionIndicator?

It’s Will Smith announcing a new album. It’s “Mamma Mia!” returning to Broadway. It’s the uptick in law school applications.
And it’s absolutely spring breaking in Houston.
In recent weeks, as the finance world has been nervously watching the S&P 500 fall, nonexperts and the chronically online are seeing signs of a possible recession in daily activities and choices. To them, a recession looks like visiting the Asian elephant exhibit at the Houston Zoo nearby instead of traveling to Asia. Or the rising interest in torts law and a decrease in creative movies.
Posts on X and TikTok with the hashtag #recessionindicator are mostly jokes or even cheeky insults about activities seen as cheap. But they also reflect public interest in how pop culture and trends might be affected by economic uncertainty, experts say.
Sequels are an easy target for the label of “recession indicator.” For some, the announcement of a fourth season of “Ted Lasso” or a sequel to “Freaky Friday” signaled that studios were tightening purse strings instead of greenlighting risky, innovative material.
“It is kind of funny to think that Jason Sudeikis is having trouble paying off his third pool, so he’s like, ‘Time to put the mustache back on!’” Rob McRae, 39, a podcast producer, said referring to the actor who plays the show’s title character.
Of course, movies, television shows and albums are pitched and planned well before they are announced, making them lagging indicators of the economy. If anything, the songs and movies released down the line could reflect today’s economic situation.
“We may be booming in two years, but you will see the scarring effects of this,” Kenneth Rogoff, a professor of economics at Harvard, said in an interview. “You’re kind of seeing now decisions that were made a few years ago.”
A better gauge of consumers’ concerns could be their habits. “If you bring liquor to the get-together, are yall taking the remainder of yall liquor at the end?” asked one X user. The question immediately became fodder for the trend and circulated widely. One popular reply was “Yes & even before the recession.”
Professor Rogoff chuckled at the hypothetical, though he found this scenario unlikely (an indication that he has never partied with journalists). But the nugget of truth is that people tend to eat out less and spend less on gifts when they are concerned about a recession.
The #recessionindicator meme is, in many ways, a repackaging of well-known academic theories. Take the “hemline index,” which posits that skirts get longer as the economy slows. Hair length and chocolate sales have also been analyzed as possible reflections of consumer sentiment.
Terry F. Pettijohn II, a professor of psychology at Coastal Carolina University, has spent more than two decades studying how the economy affects people’s decision-making.
“When social and economic times are more difficult, we prefer music that is slower, more romantic, more meaningful lyrics,” Professor Pettijohn said in an interview this month. “And when times are good, we prefer music that is more upbeat, fun, with less meaningful lyrics.”
It is not a perfect system. The top song of 2008 was the dance party anthem “Low” by Flo Rida. Maybe listeners heard “Stock market got low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low”?
Sometimes, even the upbeat music incorporates themes of the moment, such as Timbaland’s 2007 song “The Way I Are,” which starts with the line “I ain’t got no money.”
Today’s music charts are filled with slower, more meaningful songs and ballads, reflecting the economic strain, Professor Pettijohn argued.
He named Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” and “Wildflower,” as well as “Die With a Smile” by Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars, as examples. Indeed, Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars are wildly popular artists and their song might have spent 30 weeks on the Billboard Hot 100 chart regardless of the economic backdrop.
But an overall mood shift has become clearer.
This month, a Doechii song initially released in 2019 landed on the Billboard Hot 100. The title? “Anxiety.” The beat? Sampled from the 2011 hit song “Somebody That I Used to Know.” Well, that’s basically a sequel. #recessionindicator.
Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: Years after my husband's death, I'm saying goodbye to his pickup truck

“I’m just an American guy in a pickup truck,” said Stephen Beech at the end of one of our early dates. It was Valentine’s Day 1993, and he was dropping me off at my Santa Monica apartment.
His comment was supposed to act as a deterrent as he explained why he wasn’t the man for me. He’d been through a difficult few years. His first marriage had ended, and he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. Anyway, he pointed out, we were from different worlds. He was a property manager from Philadelphia, I was a British journalist based in L.A. Also, while Stephen was intent on remaining single, I was on a mission to meet the right man and start a family.
But I’d already discovered that the tall, introspective, good-looking man I was falling for had hidden depths. He played classical guitar and he was funny and philosophical too. I’d met him at a part-time master’s program in spiritual psychology at the University of Santa Monica. The fact that he drove a pickup truck only added to the romantic allure.
There was clearly an attraction on his part too. After all, there we were kissing in his blue truck outside my apartment. So we continued dating, and we went everywhere in that blue truck: coffees and dinners, drives along Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu or further north to visit friends in Ojai. I learned more about his reluctance to get involved. Stephen and his first wife had lost their little girl to cancer. He’d been trying to recover from intense grief and rebuild his life without the complications of a relationship.
But our relationship took on an ineluctable momentum, and by October, I was pregnant. When our daughter, Chace, was born in August 1994, we drove home from the hospital in the blue truck. When we bought our house in Santa Monica, Stephen piled all our possessions into the back of the truck. He used the truck to haul paving stones for our yard and plants from the garden center. By the time our second daughter, Ava-Rose, arrived four years later, the truck remained reliable.
Eventually, though, it started to break down. One spring day, I arrived home from work just as Stephen was pulling up outside our house in a gleaming, brand-new, white Dodge pickup. Stephen didn’t get excited about much, but he was smiling broadly as he took me for a spin. Payments were $400 a month, a big chunk of his paycheck, but it was worth it.
The truck became an integral part of life. There were heated conversations in the front and back seats about school, friendships and politics and there were fights about music: whether we should listen to Radio Disney or classical station KUSC. Often the consensus ended up being “The Weight,” our favorite song by Stephen’s favorite band, the Band.
Most mornings he’d take the girls to school — Ava invariably leaving the house in a panic, eating the bowl of oatmeal her dad had made her for breakfast on the road while finishing her homework. He’d drive Ava to fencing competitions all over California. He’d take Ava and Chace to ballet, and he used the truck to cart around equipment when he was volunteering backstage for the Westside School of Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker” every year.
When our daughters were in their teens, he’d take them and their friends to parties, happy to be the designated parent collecting everyone in the early hours and making sure they got home safely. He was always putting his truck to good use helping out friends and neighbors.
There were often surprise presents delivered in the truck: One birthday, it was a purple wisteria tree; one Valentine’s day, it was a vintage O’Keefe & Merritt stove.
But my favorite memories of Stephen and his truck were more mundane, involving countless serendipitous meetings around Santa Monica. I’d be out walking our dogs, Puck and Chaucer, and Stephen would just happen to be driving along the same road. He’d slow down, left elbow resting on the open window, and stop for a quick chat: “What’s up?”
The truck was emblematic of the man. Trustworthy. Enduring. Reliable. Safe. Strong. Until it wasn’t. On March 12, 2018, Stephen called from work to say he wasn’t feeling well. He was shuffling and unsteady on his feet. I suggested that he should drive to the ER just to check that all was well.
That was the last time Stephen drove his truck. He was admitted to the hospital, had a brain scan and was diagnosed with a brain stem tumor. His condition deteriorated rapidly. My Strong American Guy in a Pickup Truck could no longer drive. After three major surgeries in quick succession, he was in a wheelchair and couldn’t walk. Stephen handed over the keys of his truck to Chace, who’d moved back home from New York where she’d been working to help take care of her dad. (Ava was in her first year at college.) Chace drove us in the truck to oncology appointments until it became too difficult and Stephen needed to be picked up by private ambulance.
Over the next 3½ years, Stephen gradually lost his ability to talk, eat or breathe independently. But he remained courageous and optimistic. Like the sturdy white truck, Stephen’s spirit and will to live were strong.
Today, almost four years since Stephen lost his battle with brain cancer, it’s time to say goodbye to the truck. Chace has already spent thousands of dollars on repairs, so we’ve made the tough decision to donate it to charity.
Some of the deep grief I’ve experienced since Stephen was initially diagnosed with an incurable glioma seven years ago had subsided a little, but it’s back. I miss Stephen and I’m sad that I won’t see the truck when I go out for my early morning walk.
On a recent Sunday morning, I decide to hose it down and wipe away the ingrained grime. I’m sure that wherever he is, Stephen is rolling his eyes, having a laugh at my careless use of the hose as I end up drenched. I’m sure there’s also a wry smile as he watches me take the truck for a drive (my first) along our road, encouraged by Dave, our next-door neighbor.
“You have to drive it once,” says Dave, so I do.
I will miss the white truck: resilient, kind and generous, just like the American guy who owned it. But it’s time to set off on my next adventure, knowing that Stephen’s spirit will always be beside me in the passenger seat.
The author is a senior writer at Thrive Global. Prior to Thrive, she wrote for U.K. and global newspapers, including the Guardian, the Times, the Telegraph and the Mail on Sunday. She also was a TV correspondent for the BBC and other U.K. networks.
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
Office-Wear Influencers Like McLaurine Pinover Clock In Twice

As soon as he arrives to his office, just before 8 a.m. each day, Xander Maddox makes his way to the kitchen and lounge area, where large windows drench the space with ample natural lighting.
Usually his colleagues aren’t yet in at that hour, so he makes himself a cup of coffee and positions his phone in front of the window with the camera on and facing him. Then he hits record and steps back to capture the day’s outfit:
A black leather jacket.
A bright blue sweater from COS, Margiela loafers and two cups of Raisin Bran for breakfast.
A white T-shirt, gray pants and cherry red Nike Air Rifts, which he described as “a calm office fit.”
The whole process takes about five minutes. Then he has to upload.
“I try to do the same routine every day just to make it cohesive,” he said in a phone interview.
Mr. Maddox, a 31-year-old executive assistant at a finance company in Jersey City, N.J., isn’t doing this as part of his day job, but for his side hustle as a fashion content creator on TikTok, where hundreds find inspiration in the looks he put together.
Fashion influencing is a billion-dollar business, by some estimates, and many creators aspire to make it their full-time job. But for office-style influencers, their side hustle depends on their main hustle. They’re working at — and showcasing — their style at their real-life offices: law firms, tech companies, call centers, advertising agencies. Several times a week, they discreetly find the perfect spot in their break rooms or restrooms to record their ensembles for the internet.
After all, where else are you supposed to shoot #professionalfashion, #officeootd and #workfashioninspo videos but at an actual office?
In conversations with around half a dozen office-wear influencers in recent days, one thing was clear: You do have to time it right.
And posting your style at the office can backfire. Last week, McLaurine Pinover, the spokeswoman for the U.S. Office of Personnel Management, came under fire after CNN reported on her workplace-style influencer videos, filmed in her office and posted on Instagram as her agency oversaw the layoffs of thousands of federal workers as part of an order by the Trump administration. She deleted her Instagram account, @getdressedwithmc, soon after the news outlet reached out to her.
“There’s a lot of emotions around the government and the state of the world we’re in right now, so I think you got to read the room,” Mr. Maddox said of Ms. Pinover’s case. “If you are in a highly visible job and you’re doing something that seems to be insensitive to the masses, then you’ve got to be able to have that common sense.”
As someone who is 5-foot-10 and broadly built, Mr. Maddox said he had to be meticulous with his shopping, prioritizing pants and shirts that would fit his frame. He would describe his style as “cozy, but elevated” and aims to inspire men, especially those with his body type, who want to express personal style in the office. Many of his colleagues follow him online with enthusiasm and support, he said. They haven’t spoken about it directly, but Mr. Maddox said he was also pretty confident that is boss was OK with it.
“As long as it doesn’t affect work,” he said, adding that his boss has a large social media presence as the chief executive of the company.
Five years after the coronavirus pandemic sent many employees home to log into meetings in loungewear, including new college graduates who began their professional careers on their couches, many are still unsure how to show up for work.
“After Covid, people didn’t know how to dress, because I definitely had no clue,” said Whitney Grett, a 27-year-old I.T. account manager for a staffing company in Houston. “Everyone was wearing sweatshirts the first year.”
Ms. Grett joined her current workplace remotely in early 2021, several months after she graduated from college. She was excited when it was time to return to the office and she could experiment with different ways to dress for work. Last summer, after receiving compliments from her co-workers about her outfits, she decided to start sharing her work looks on TikTok.
“It got to the point where I was like, I guess I’ll just start posting these because it just gave me another hobby to do, honestly,” she said.
In her videos, which are seen by thousands, Ms. Grett poses in front of the glass doors of an unoccupied conference room to capture her look for the day. She and a work friend usually meet up with a tripod around lunchtime to avoid foot traffic. Sometimes they have to wait until the end of the day to shoot if the office is really busy.
“I get some comments from people being like, ‘Oh, I could never do that,’ and I’m like, ‘I understand,’” she said. “I have a very supportive team — I’m not the first one who posted videos from the office before. I think they’re happy that I keep it to a little room.”
According to Jaehee Jung, a professor of fashion and apparel studies at the University of Delaware, office-wear content is popular today because younger audiences, especially ones that started their careers in a hybrid work world, are desperate for guidance on a very basic question: How should I dress for work?
“You’re not at home, so you do have to think about what are some of the rules that could be considered in the working environment,” she said. “Because depending on the profession and industry, you do have some different etiquettes, different tolerance of formality.”
According to Professor Jung, shooting office-wear content in an actual office offers influencers one major advantage: being automatically perceived as an expert. That generic conference room décor proves that someone hired them to work in an office, so they must know something about getting dressed for one.
Vianiris Abreu, a 30-year-old human-resources manager at an advertising agency in Manhattan, said one of the reasons she began posting office wear on TikTok in 2021, when she returned to an office, was that she had missed dressing up for work. Working in a somewhat nontraditional environment allowed her to be more innovative in her dress than many would expect.
“Perhaps what I wear is not something that all H.R. people wear, but it’s definitely normal being that I work in the advertising industry,” she said, adding that she doesn’t divulge too much online about where she works and what she does.
Ms. Abreu said that shooting in the office — she usually spends about 15 minutes a day recording what will become a seven-second clip on TikTok — comes off as more authentic.
“I think for me, the aesthetic of the office is very pretty, and the engagement seems to be higher,” she said. “But I also think it just shows me in the office, which is the whole point of it.”
In many cases, these side gigs can pay off. Last year, Mr. Maddox, the executive assistant in Jersey City, said earned around $2,000 in sponsorships, payments and merchandise from brands. He describes this extra income as “play money.” But he is selective about the work.
“I don’t take every opportunity that comes in because it’s not my full-time job,” he said.
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