Flying: The Most Elaborate Way to Die

I bet there was a time (because I've seen the pictures) when flying was this classy event; women wore skirts, men wore blazer jackets and ties and the whole thing was just one long glamorous parade of beautiful people going somewhere exotic.

Now, there's a fully grown man sitting across the terminal wearing what I can only assume to be his pajama pants and flip flops. There's a woman in a full sweatsuit. T-shirts and jeans everywhere. There's one guy wearing a suit jacket and it makes him look like a real hoser. 

Dressing up at the airport now makes you look like a first-class douche.

Also, getting a pat-down in a skirt is slightly more violating, I feel. I got the once-over today because I put my ticket in the back pocket of my (very fancy, mind you) jeans before going through the body scanner. Apparently backscatter X-ray technology has not as yet been able to penetrate the devious potential of a single sheet of paper.

Okay, confession time: my real motivation in writing this is to broadcast the fact that I'm traveling. Traveling makes you important. Maybe I'm just going to Chicago for a wedding but also maybe I'm heading to New York to shoot pics for my Times editorial (hahaha - yeah, no, it's just the Chicago wedding thing).

More confessions: I paid $15 to board in group 1. Why did I do this? Because I can count at least six people sitting around here that obviously have more than the alotted two carry-ons and in addition to this gross disregard for basic flight etiquette at least one of those bags are GINORMOUS! Like well over the limit for the overheads. I am not checking baggage because Glambot over there can't tone it down a bit (that Louis Vuitton carport you call a tote is YOUR THIRD CARRYON!). 

Final confession: I look forward to flying because it is the only time that I can a) listen to Justin Tomberlake while b) reading fashion magazines actually from this month and c) eating peanut butter M&Ms all with absolutely zero guilt. This is not possible anywhere else in my life. I do feel a slight twinge when I think of the fact that should the plane go down, whoever sifts through the reckage and first finds my body will get a completely distorted view of who I was (I only read books and eat spinach at home, after all). Hey, I like Wilco, okay - I'm cool. 

Flying: the Russian roulette of the sky.

Please just acknowledge the fact that I'm traveling and you're not and that means I'm ahead. Just give me this.

And don't let these be my last written words - find my unfinished works! Tell tales of my brilliance unrealized! Feed my fish!

Kidding. I don't have fish - bleck, disgusting.