To Strip or Not To Strip?

What Should You Do??

De: Kristin William

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

I was not born naked. I mean technically I was, like every baby, but I mean in the spiritual lifestyle sense. I grew up wearing jeans that could stand upright on their own from too many washes and too few fabric softener sheets. I was the kind of girl who wore a one piece bathing suit to a pool party and then also a t-shirt on top, just in case someone saw the shape of my stomach and reported it to the government. I was deeply committed to covering up. I thought clothes made me respectable. I thought bras were my shield. I thought pants were my personality.

Then I turned 38 and realized pants have never once paid my mortgage, listened to my problems, or brought me joy. Pants have pockets that lie. They are not to be trusted.

I live in a nice quiet suburb outside Seattle, trees in every direction, neighbors who pretend they do not see each other even when we are both unloading groceries at the same time. You know the kind. I drive a Volvo XC60, which I am convinced is the official sponsor of “Women Who Have Finally Decided to Buy Something Nice For Themselves After Years of Suffering Through Sensible Cars.” I used to be a Subaru girl. I wore fleece. I drank craft coffee like it was my job. Then one day my Outback broke down in a Trader Joe’s parking lot while I was holding a bag of frozen cauliflower gnocchi and dignity just slipped right out of my body. That was the day the Volvo happened. I still whisper thank you to the heated seats.

Some people assume nudists live in communes in the desert with drums and herbal tinctures. I do not. I live in a cul-de-sac, thank you very much, with a HOA that would spontaneously combust if they even suspected my lower half saw daylight. My cat Donna, Persian, fluffy, judgmental, stares at me like she is filing reports to God whenever I walk around nude in my own home. She blinks very slowly like she is disappointed I have failed some feline decency code.

But being nude is not just being nude. It is a philosophy. A lifestyle. A way of returning to the version of yourself that existed before you learned to cringe at your own reflection. It is funny. It is awkward. It is sometimes breezy in ways you do not anticipate depending on the weather and ceiling fan situation.

I travel a lot, to hot springs, beaches, resorts, cabins in the woods where clothing is considered optional and sunblock is considered sacred scripture. I have learned things. I have seen things. I have seen my own butt in natural light at 8 a.m. with no warning. That changes a woman.

People always ask me, Kristin, when did you become a nudist? And the truth is there was no single moment. There was no choir of angels, no bolt of lightning, no mystical oracle handing me a sarong and whispering “cast it aside.” It was more like one day I realized I was tired. Tired of pretending my body was a secret. Tired of acting like my thighs were a scandal. Tired of tugging at waistbands, adjusting straps, checking mirrors, hiding, apologizing, shrinking. One day I simply said, I think I am done with being ashamed.

Nudity did not solve all my problems, but it did remove several layers of laundry.

There are stories in here. Some educational, some questionable, some mildly incriminating depending on which county you are in. There will be friends, occasionally, when their behavior is relevant to the lesson at hand. Tanya, for example, who once tried to give a TED Talk at a hot spring about how her butt has better “natural lift than most bridges” while I was just trying to enjoy the steam. Susan, who once challenged everyone present to a cartwheel contest and then absolutely did not do a cartwheel herself. People are characters. Clothing or not.