I’m at the airport this morning, en route to New York for work. As I sit here at a gate crowded with potential passengers (the standby list is a mile long), it’s clear that whatever glamour was once associated with business travel has been grounded for life.

Perhaps it always was. Closing my eyes, I can easily call to mind images of a nattily-attired man (three-piece suit, pocket square) with briefcase in hand, rushing off to catch a flight to a far-flung city in hopes of landing the big account. Climbing the plane’s stairs with only minutes to spare, he’s greeted by a beautiful buxom blonde before settling into a comfortable window seat (always a window seat). It seems all so very Mad Men (to use a modern reference), with the secretary pool swapped for stewardesses and a mile-high club, though the free-flowing cocktails remain.

Now I’m not advocating the return of such full-frontal sexism. Or stewardesses (though the uniforms were fantastic). But where did I get the idea that “traveling for work” should be so expectedly chic? Must be the movies, though I couldn’t tell you which ones. They were likely already old the first time I saw them.

Looking around the gate, I don’t see many suits. I do see sweatpants and sweatshirts, but such matching separates do not a suit make. I’m dressed in a corduroy blazer, button-down shirt, V-neck sweater, slim black jeans; a stylish combination of contemporary black and grays. But the modern age jet-setters sitting near me did not take similar care in choosing their flying attire this morning.

Did I mention it’s Spring Break?

Fast forward a few hours. I’m awaiting my afternoon meeting when a call comes through: My return flight that evening has been cancelled. The automated message informs me that the airline has rebooked me on a pre-dawn flight the next day. Fantastic.

Alternate arrangements must be made: Different airline. Different airport. A much longer flight thanks to a much smaller airplane.

Arriving at JFK with just enough time to grab a bite before boarding, what does this CRJ-100-setting, relatively nattily-attired ad guy choose to sate his appetite? Burger King. This terminal, like so many others, suffers from a royal lack of culinary choices.

Though my body will ultimately suffer the salt-and-fat-filled consequences, I grab my bag o’ burger grease, and head off to heed the boarding call. But there’s been a gate change, requiring a longer walk into the abyss, through an exterior jet way that resembles a rental tent, and up the stairs to the diminutive plane. I take my equally tiny seat (aisle, not window) and, so as not to offend with the BK scent, down my food fast.

Three hours later, I’m home. Though it’s been less than 24 hours since my departure, I feel like I’ve been gone a week. Because the typical experience (security lines, fellow travelers, uncomfortable seats, cancelled flights) is so frustratingly awful, these sorts of jaunts just can’t carry the cachet they once did.

I did, however, discover one thing while daytripping: There’s one thing worse than working at a fast-food outlet. Working at a fast-food outlet in an airport.

But the glamour of business travel? That’s the real whopper.