Sweatpants, Slides, and Suffering

Once upon a time, air travel was an event. People dressed for it—coiffed hair, tailored suits, heels that defied gravity and bunions alike. Fast forward to today, and the terminal looks more like a clearance bin at a suburban Walmart during a fire drill.

Let’s begin with the reigning monarch of airport atrocities: the pajama traveler. You know the one. Hair in a bird’s nest of dry shampoo and despair, a SpongeBob onesie or plaid flannel pants that have seen some things, and Crocs—unironically. This person has decided that since the TSA is already strip-searching their dignity, there’s no need to pretend to have any.

Then there’s athleisure gone rogue. Sure, Lululemon technically qualifies as pants, but if your leggings are sheer enough to identify your religion, it’s time to reassess. You’ll also find people pairing sports bras with puffer jackets, like they got dressed by blindly spinning a Wheel of Clothing. Add a pair of Balenciaga dad sneakers the size of a Subaru, and boom: runway-ready... if that runway is in a fever dream.

Let’s not forget the “I’m going to the Islands” crew, who dress for their destination, not their departure. It’s 5 a.m. in Chicago and 42 degrees, but they’re already in flip-flops and a tank top that reads “Rosé All Day.” Bonus points if there’s a sunhat larger than their carry-on and sunglasses big enough to signal aircraft. Meanwhile, they’re shivering in line at Starbucks, clearly regretting every choice they’ve ever made.

On the other end of the spectrum, you have the “Did you know this was a red-eye, not a red carpet?” individual. This traveler arrives at Gate C23 looking like they’re en route to the Met Gala. Stilettos, lashes longer than the flight time, and an outfit that squeaks when they move. These people clearly think TSA stands for Totally Serving Aesthetic, and listen—respect—but also, why?

Special mention goes to the tech bros in matching startup uniforms: Patagonia vests, Allbirds, and the haunted, slightly confused stare of someone who just discovered their Uber app doesn’t work in Des Moines. Their laptops are out the second they sit, pretending to be productive while playing Minesweeper and stress-eating beef jerky.

And then we meet the dreaded “layer hoarders”—people who dress like they’re fleeing a collapsing glacier. Scarf, hoodie, coat, poncho, another scarf, weird blanket-cape hybrid... all worn at once like a game of thermal Jenga. Their goal? To avoid checking a bag at all costs by becoming the carry-on. These are the same people who will strip down in Seat 17B and use the armrest as a coat rack. May God help us all.

Of course, we can’t talk about airport fashion without acknowledging the loud pattern people. Hawaiian shirts, pants with emojis, or that guy in head-to-toe camo—sir, if I can still see you, it’s not working. These fashion choices often come with zero explanation and even less self-awareness, which is honestly impressive.

Let’s be clear: comfort is fine. Practicality? Encouraged. But there’s a difference between functional and feral. The airport is not your living room, your gym, or your club. It’s shared purgatory with overpriced snacks and strangers who already hate you for reclining your seat.

So next time you fly, maybe—just maybe—don’t look like you’ve either just rolled out of bed or are en route to Coachella. Let’s meet in the middle: a clean shirt, pants with actual seams, and footwear that doesn’t scream “I gave up.” Because when you're hurtling through the sky in a pressurized metal tube with 200 other souls, the least you can do is wear real pants.

Bon voyage—and for the love of all that’s decent, leave the Snuggie at home.