Put some pants on, ladies

BY ERIN K. O'NEILL

COLUMBIA — Considering all the events of this year, and even in this week (Hello, attempted-to-blow-up-airplane-and-failed terrorist guy), it is a sad statement that the status of tights as pants in today’s sartorial climate must even be considered. And yet, here I am, dedicating an entire column to the subject.

I feel that I should blame the hot mess on Lindsay Lohan for pushing the pro-tights-as-pants agenda onto an unsophisticated public filled with young girls who don’t remember the early '90s. But Ms. Lohan has had enough trouble lately, so we must not point fingers. We, as a fashion- and image-conscious society, must take responsibility for our own actions.

I would like to be very clear: Tights are not pants. Those $10 black leggings found at Target are not pants. Lace footless tights are not pants. Jeggings (a combination of jeans and leggings, which also made it onto the New York Times list of 2009 buzzwords) are not pants. If the potential NotPants could be worn while playing Mercutio in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, the NotPants are really not pants.

The Web site tightsarenotpants.com (which also has a press kit to spread the Gospel of Tights are not Pants) is dedicated to fighting the plague of NotPants. “Tights as pants leave nothing to the imagination. Tights as pants are the fashion equivalent of Too Much Information,” the manifesto says. “This gratuitous divulgence of assets repels where the tights-as-pants wearer presumably hopes to entice.”

As such, tights and other suspect leg coverings should not be worn without proper coverage. They cannot be worn with normal tops, because they do not qualify as pants. If you can’t wear the top without pants, you can’t wear it with just tights. You need to put on a skirt or, gee, I dunno, some real pants. Maybe even some trousers.

For example: Wear your tights under a dress that you could wear without tights and not be arrested for indecent exposure. They’re very functional for keeping legs warm in winter and hiding a shaving lapse.

Not to mention, except on the most perfect of female forms (read: no one), tights are just not flattering. They emphasize a woman’s shape in all the very wrong places. There is no figure forgiveness. There is an extremely high risk of VPN (visible panty line), and even higher risk of VW (visible wedgies). These are all things to be avoided.

Tights are even admissible as leg coverings in sport, or dance, and maybe (and I do mean maybe) even worn ironically to an '80s party. I wear tights to go jogging. They’re very practical for winter. And, I wear my leggings as pajamas. I get it, really: Leggings and tights are comfortable. They’re stretchy and soft and not constricting at all.

But, under no circumstances are they ever to be considered and worn as pants. Because they are not pants.

Erin K. O'Neill is a former assistant director of photography and page designer for the Missourian. She is also a master's degree candidate at the Missouri School of Journalism.

Published in the Columbia Missourian on Wednesday, December 30, 2009.

Tiger Woods' scandal proves he's human

BY ERIN K. O'NEILL

Celebrity culture made Tiger Woods. And now, celebrity culture has eaten Tiger Woods.

It’s a great opening line, isn’t it? Except that celebrity culture, that ravenous beast that has chewed up peons with even minuscule amounts of talent, had nothing to do with “making” Tiger Woods. Tiger Wood’s innate Olympian ability — his preternatural golfing skill — made him the absolute superstar he is now. And I mean Olympian in the ancient Greek sense — Tiger Woods is modernity’s answer to Heracles.

Heracles, better known by his Roman name Hercules, was the son of Zeus and a mortal woman. In myth, he’s an authentic hero and demigod who conquered snakes in the cradle and performed a dozen labors (one of them was cleaning stables — no joke) before achieving 100 percent god status and earning a place on Mount Olympus and a goddess wife.

We humans like these kinds of stories, especially when they become flesh in the form of multicultural golf prodigies. I don’t even have to cite Tiger Woods’ many golf accomplishments, which include 71 PGA tournament victories and being the youngest Masters champion ever at 21 years old and the first Asian or black winner of a major golf championship. Tiger Woods is also worth, and I believe this is the technical financial term, a bagazillion dollars.

It’s interesting that revelations of Tiger Woods’ marital indiscretions are making the public question the axiom that all publicity is good publicity. Of all the people in the world idolized by celebrity culture, I would argue that Tiger Woods is one of the very few who have made it on pure (and freakishly inhuman) talent. Tiger Woods would have been a superstar without a vapid and image-driven, publicity-obsessed public to satisfy.

And now, Tiger Woods (well, his reputation and image) are festering in the belly of the giant whale that is celebrity culture. He’s like Jonah now. There is no amount of money or genuine greatness to get him out of this one now that Tiger Woods has been revealed as a mere mortal whose impeccable public image was really one heck of a smokescreen and not a result of superior moral or ethical attributes. It’s a good thing Oprah is still on the air because if Jonah had to repent to God, I think we all know that Tiger Woods needs to repent to Oprah.

Intellectually, this Tiger Woods’ media debacle shouldn’t really affect anyone’s perception of his sporting accomplishments, which are the true source of his celebrity. Most of the people we call celebrities today are really just infamous — there is no merit to their "fame," just meaningless publicity which is translated by a media-anesthetized public as true distinction.

Tiger Woods is not that kind of celebrity.

By the standard of most great men, Tiger Woods is nothing special. Don’t they all seem to get caught stepping out on their marriages? Not that being extraordinary in some important realm excuses extramarital affairs or other moral failings, but it seems that everyone is so surprised that Tiger Woods is human. Despite the superhuman accomplishments, Heracles was part human, too.

Erin K. O'Neill is a former assistant director of photography and current page designer for the Missourian. She is also a master's degree candidate at the Missouri School of Journalism.

Published in the Columbia Missourian on Wednesday, December 16, 2009.

Believe in Santa Claus

BY ERIN K. O'NEILL

The way my mother tells it, I was extraordinarily upset to find out that Santa Claus is a well-intentioned myth.

I was four or five years old, and my parents allowed me to open all my presents on Christmas Eve, so that my father could work Christmas Day and earn time-and-a-half for the holiday. When I ran upstairs in the morning, thinking that Santa had come, I was (apparently) hysterical to find out that it was all a lie.

I don’t remember any of this. Clearly, it was a very traumatic experience.

Like most myths, Santa Claus is essentially a bribe for children to be good, by whatever standards the parents see fit. That said, no matter how many times my 9-year-old brother, whom I affectionately call JakeMonster, expresses his love by hitting me with whatever implement of destruction that is nearest, he has never received coal in his stocking (as he should, in my opinion).

The myth of Santa Claus is really a lovely one, though, if you are still innocent enough to believe. To believe that a jolly old man with a white beard who lives at the North Pole flies a sleigh full of toys on Christmas Eve and delivers obscene amounts of presents to all the children in the world who are good is to truly believe in the goodness of humanity. It requires a beautiful guilelessness and naiveté.

Being burdened by the intricacies and repetition of everyday life, as an adult, means frequently forgoing the delights of innocent wonder for more pragmatic pursuits. Utility bills and apartment rent and car repairs and work aren’t always the stuff of which dreams are made. But the holiday season, which at least around here is certainly the most dreary weather-wise, is a time to set aside those concerns and experience the world with fresh eyes of youthful awe.

The “spirit of Christmas” requires a childlike wonder. And we adults manufacture that spirit through the propagation of the Santa Claus myth to children. And then we go about creating a magical world filled with sparkly lights, shiny stars, snow, sleigh rides and evergreen trees.

I put my own little Christmas tree up before Thanksgiving, and yes, there are presents under it. Christmas is the ultimate rationalization of the shopping and consumer culture in which we all participate, and I love shopping. But it’s OK because it’s Christmas and I’m buying gifts for my family and friends.

Christmas spirit, or holiday spirit or whatever particular idioms you choose to describe the season, is set apart from religious observance. The Puritans even banned the celebration of Christmas for 22 years in the 17th century. Whatever you observe, whether in the birth of a God-sent savior or the lunar winter solstice, culturally, we put aside more prosaic affairs in order to make a leap of faith. Every year, I want to believe in Sana Claus because it means recapturing a less jaded version of myself.

Children are more perceptive than I think most give them credit for. My brother, the aforementioned JakeMonster, is often insightful enough to injure me with words even more than the stuffed animal attacks do. Even if he knows me and my parents are lying about Santa Claus, I know that he will be jumping on me at 6 a.m. Christmas morning begging me to get out of bed to open presents, because for those few precious moments every year, it doesn’t matter if Santa Claus is really real or just a myth. What matters is the faith that he could maybe possibly be real.

Erin K. O'Neill is a former assistant director of photography and current page designer for the Missourian. She is also a master's degree candidate at the Missouri School of Journalism.

Published in the Columbia Missourian on Wednesday, December 9, 2009.