Flights of Fancy

Dressing for 35,000 feet; never naked or even a little bit naked

Surely, the most courageous people on Planet Earth are those who dare to board an airplane wearing midriff-baring sleeveless crop tops, and/or short-shorts, and/or flip-flops. Just the thought of unprotected skin on an airplane fills me with cold fear. I’m not a germaphobe, but I am amazed that anyone would want to even pass through an airport partially uncovered, and I am beyond amazement when I see anyone showing more than an essential quadrant of bare epidermis onboard. Someone recently posted about seeing a passenger go into an airplane bathroom barefoot. No comment; I’ve passed out, weak with horror. As I start packing for my trip to London on May 12, the easiest part is knowing that I’ll cover as much of myself on the plane as I can, even if it’s hot out—after all, at 35,000 feet, it’s always Arctic springtime.

I took my first flight when I was ten or eleven years old. My family was heading to Florida for winter vacation. Until that point, we had driven to all our vacations, which meant my brother and sister and I spent long hours in the backseat quibbling about where the dividing line between our turf really was and whether one of us had grazed the other with a square inch of skin. We fought like animals back there, and maybe the pivot to flying for vacation was a battle-observer’s weariness on my parents’ part. Or maybe they just wanted to capitalize on our vacation time—I don’t know. In any event, I was slack-jawed with dread and excitement on that first flight, certain we would first be hijacked to Cuba and then—I guess after a short stay in Havana?—crash.

Photo by emanuviews on Unsplash

At least I was well-dressed. My mother treated every public outing as a referendum on propriety, which included air travel. In her defense, she had come of age as aviation was coming of age, and there was pure glamour still attached to it. Who was more beautiful than an Eastern Airlines stewardess? No one. Who wore a more tidily tailored luncheon dress, nifty pumps, and a chic accessory—maybe a jaunty scarf, or a snappy belt? The stewardesses—yes, thanks, I know, we no longer call them “stewardesses”—were popped out of blonde molds probably cast in Weston, Connecticut, and they embodied a saucy-but-prim womanliness that complimented the hunky pilots little girls like me eyed with equal parts awe and desire. If I had known that a crew like this awaited me, I would have lobbied to fly a lot sooner.

Flying back then was indeed an occasion. People didn’t do it as often as we do now; there was still ceremony and pomp attached to getting on an airplane. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that flying then wasn’t nearly as safe as it is now, so each time you dared to fly, you were unfurling the mortal coil just a little bit, which certainly called for some ritual and formality. My mother, always one to rise to an occasion even when there was no occasion, treated airplane attire as an entire category of its own, wedged somewhere between the synagogue on High Holy Days and a country club luncheon. While my outfit of preference at the time of that first flight was a pair of red jeans and a camp shirt, this was not my mom’s idea of airplane wear: we were not farmers, after all, she might have said. She dressed my sister and me in little shifts, white anklets, patent-leather shoes. While an outfit like that would mark you as a weirdo on a plane today, back then we were only a few notches more primped than the other travelers. Men were in blazers. Women were in skirts and twin sets. I promise you there wasn’t a crop top in sight, and I would wager there wasn’t even denim, either.

When I got older, I chafed at my mother’s insistence that we dress nicely when we flew. By then my high school had relaxed its adamantine dress code, finally allowing us to wear blue jeans (although skirts still had to achieve a mandatory modest length). I wanted to wear jeans on flights the way I wore jeans everywhere else in my life, but this so scandalized my mom that I dutifully put on something ladylike. On one of our flights, though, my compliance came to an end. We had just boarded and were delayed for a minute near the galley. I was wearing a short-sleeved navy-blue pique dress with red piping—something that would have charitably been described as “smart” and uncharitably as “square”. A passenger approached me and, with deference, asked me when we were scheduled to land. How the hell would I know? I stared at the passenger blankly, and after a moment he apologized and said he thought I was a flight attendant. I was only about sixteen at the time, but the smart navy-blue dress with red piping had aged me like cheese; after all, at that time, most girls of sixteen were wearing Grateful Dead T-shirts and denim bell-bottoms all day, every day, and definitely on planes. I never wore a dress onboard again. Eventually even my mother caved to the new order, trading her on-board skirt suits for trousers and a cotton top. I’m sure she saw it as a sign of the end times.

SHOW NOTES

—This obviously begs the question of what I do wear on flights, now that I get to pick my own clothes. Truth be told, I can’t shake the feeling, courtesy of my mom, that I should be tidy and even a little bit polished when I’m on a plane. I definitely want to be comfortable, but I just can’t do the dirty sweatshirt/track shorts thing. And I damn well am not going to be half-naked, since airplanes do not envelope me with a sense of great cleanliness and hygiene. I’m not in a hazmat suit, either, but I’m happier when I have my extremities covered. For a brief, disassociative moment, I thought wearing a cute jumpsuit was perfect for an airplane ride, but then it dawned on me that I would have to disrobe almost entirely if I used the restroom, no doubt dragging my cute jumpsuit on the terrifyingly sticky floor there, and the jumpsuit concept went out the window. Now I wear a long-sleeved something and loose but not floppy bottoms and socks under all circumstances and shoes that won’t set off the metal detector. I just came back from Chicago and I aced the flight in Athleta joggers and a Tibi top and silver Onitsuka Tiger sneakers. Even Mom would approve!

—I might repeat this look on my flight to London, since I think I could sleep in it comfortably.

—I am a habitual over-packer, not proud, just being honest, but I am working the steps and feel carry-on only is in my future even on trips that seem to call for more. For instance, this London trip is two weeks long and we are also going to Brussels, Amsterdam, and Rotterdam. The trip is organized by an architectural conservation group my husband and I belong to, and they just informed us that we can only have carry-on bags because of the need to move quickly from one connection to the next. Challenge accepted! When I can’t sleep, I mentally pack, trying to whittle down my haul to what might fit in my wallet. I think I want everyone to be intimidated by how little I’ve brought.

—Those of you who were following my raincoat despair, I’d like to let you know that I just got my delivery from Rains and damn! I ordered two raincoats (a simple, straightforward rain jacket, and a kooky rain cape). The straightforward jacket is more interesting that I expected, and the kooky cape is more wearable and less weird than I feared. This doesn’t negate what I was moaning about—dearth of cool, functional raincoats—but I’m happily surprised.

—Baby Reindeer

—This Rus top