Like so much else, apparently. Like all of those thousands and thousands of hours you once spent on the flight deck of an airplane.
“Chip?”
You glance up at John and his raised chalice.
“You seem to have your head in the clouds tonight,” he says.
“Not anymore,” you tell him, holding high your glass, “those days are gone.” Then, after you have taken a slow, comradely sip, you sigh.