I flew out of Indianapolis International a year or so back, bound for San Francisco. I had a connecting flight down in Phoenix, and even though I usually tried to get the non-stop, Sky Harbor Airport is normally a quick turn-a-around. So, I didn’t see any problem with landing at San Francisco around 11:30 pm, catching a train uptown, and then making it up to my apartment.

My rule of thumb is that those in the know, even in this day and age of sweatpants and flip-flops, always dress up at least a little bit to take a plane. And so, I cruised up to Indy, and marched into the terminal wearing a nice sport coat, clean jeans, and some shiny black slip on dress shoes. For me, no big deal. That’s just the way I like to look when I fly… you know, like you belong to be there. Besides, I’m old enough to remember when flying was actually kind of a big deal, and most people back in the late 70s and well into the 80s would dress up a bit to fly.

Anyhow, I was feeling pretty good about myself that night, and just went in, hit the restroom, checked myself in the mirror, and then off to catch my flight. On my way to the TSA security lines, I’m looking around at all the other frequent fliers in their pajama pants, house slippers, and head phones.

“Pathetic,” I thought aloud, “They all look like they’re going to Walmart at midnight on a Saturday to get potato chips.”

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