I’m currently sat on a Jetstar plane, flying back to Sydney from Perth. I checked in online too late and got stuck with the dreaded middle seat.
Two of Australia’s naughtiest crotch goblins are seated in the row in front of me. My headphones are barely drowning out the relentless screaming and bickering, while their poor, exhausted mother tries to calm them between pauses in her episode of Wednesday.
Despite the cold grey plastic of the fold-down tray jerking to and fro as one of the kids throws yet another tantrum, I remain oddly serene.
How, you ask?
Stoicism? Breathing exercises? Tramadol?
Nope.
A suit.
I was just as happy three days ago on the reverse journey — also in a middle seat — for the exact same reason. I was wearing a suit.
Now, I’ve travelled for work before. It’s always exciting because it doesn’t happen often. But this trip felt different. I’ve just landed a new job with a fancy title, and in my interpretation of the dress code, that meant one thing: wear a suit. I wanted to make a good impression on my new colleagues, my new bosses, and, if I’m honest, on myself.
The logistics were brutal — leave Sydney at 6am for a five hour flight, landing in Perth at 8am local time — which meant no chance to check into the hotel or change. If I was going to walk into the office looking even remotely put together, I’d have to do something I’d always wanted to since I was a kid on my first plane ride: travel in a suit.
Compared to the fairer sex, we blokes don’t have much range when it comes to self-expression through professional clothes. Halter necks, pencil skirts, blouses, heels — the options go on. For men, we have the humble suit.
But that humble suit holds a secret power. Confidence. Swagger. Gravitas.
On every flight I’ve ever taken, there’s been a man in a suit. Young me would watch him, fascinated. What did he do for a living? What was so important that he needed to dress like that?
In my twelve-year-old mind, the answers were always impossibly cool — arms dealer, hitman, international spy.
My mate Shahid used to wear a suit to college, for no other reason than he wanted to. Our friendship group would take the piss in that lovely way only men can do, but I always held a quiet respect for it. Even back then, he knew the secret. A suit makes you feel like you’ve got your life together — even when you absolutely don’t.
Is it comfortable? Fuck no. My boxers have ridden so high they may as well be Y-fronts, the stiff leather of my new shoes is punishing my feet, and my belt is carving a neat groove into my stomach. But it doesn’t matter. I look and feel like a goddamn badass.
My new job involves neither selling missiles nor killing people — at least not directly. But the people on the plane don’t know that. To them, I’m not on my way to complete HR onboarding and set up passwords for various systems. I’m John Wick en route to the Continental.
As I adjust into my seat, I glance to my right at my fellow row 14 plane-farer. He’s texting someone named “Wife.”
“Please forgive me, honey.”
“I can’t forgive you. Especially after the weed issue.”
“Please.”
Poor bloke. I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s wearing a suit.
So glad to hear you are on a new adventure. I understand the suit - I’m best dressed at my work - shows my insides on the outside.