So…You Wanna Go Naked Around Me?

You Certainly Can!

Let’s get one thing straight right away. This is not a seduction manual. This is not a manifesto. This is definitely not a cult thing, although my aunt asked and I respect the concern. This is just me, Kristin, thirty eight years old, living in the suburbs outside Seattle where it rains sideways and everyone owns at least one fleece they emotionally depend on, telling you that if you are naked around me, I am not going to scream, faint, call the cops, or suddenly act like I’ve never seen a human body before. I have. I own one. I live in it. Sometimes it creaks.

If you are already naked while reading this, first of all, bold move. Second of all, relax. You’re fine. If you are fully clothed and deeply nervous, clutching this book like it might explode, also fine. I wrote this for both of us. I wrote this because nudity gets way more dramatic press than it deserves, and also because I have accidentally created a life where I spend an unreasonable amount of time explaining to people that no, being naked does not automatically mean something sexual is happening, and yes, please sit on the towel.

I did not grow up nude. I grew up normal, which in my case meant Pacific Northwest practical. Layers. Hoodies. Jeans that smelled vaguely like campfire and damp leaves. I was a Subaru girl for years because that’s what we did. You hauled dogs, groceries, feelings, and sometimes friends named Tanya who refused to wear shoes into those cars. The nudity came later, and it came sideways, like most of the best and worst things in my life.

The first thing you should know is that nudity is not brave at first. It is awkward. It is loud in your brain. Your body feels like it’s suddenly doing stand up comedy without a microphone. You become extremely aware of elbows, knees, and parts of yourself you have not thought about since high school gym class trauma. Anyone who tells you they were instantly confident is either lying or trying to sell you a candle.

I am not here to convince you to be naked. I am here to tell you what happens when you stop treating your body like a problem that needs solving. Sometimes what happens is peaceful. Sometimes what happens is you drop something and realize you do not have pockets and now you have to bend over in front of people and make eye contact afterward. Growth comes in many forms.

I live in a nice, aggressively normal neighborhood. We have lawns. We have people who wave but do not want to talk. We have one guy who is very serious about recycling. Inside those houses are bodies. All kinds. Tall, soft, scarred, perky, tired, enthusiastic, confused. When you remove clothes, you do not remove humanity. You remove costume. That’s it. Everything else stays. Your personality does not float away. Your political opinions do not evaporate, although yes, I am still a liberal Democrat without pants on. Shocking, I know.

People ask me all the time what changed. Was there a moment. A lightning bolt. A dramatic beach scene. Honestly, it was smaller than that. It was a realization that I was spending way too much time managing other people’s comfort at the expense of my own.

Sometimes friends will appear briefly, like weather systems. Sometimes Tanya and I yell at each other naked and then make up five minutes later like emotionally mature raccoons. Sometimes Susan absolutely should not have said what she said and yet here we are. Mostly, though, it is just me, figuring out how to exist comfortably in my own skin and realizing that comfort is contagious.

If you are expecting this to be tasteful, lower the bar slightly. If you are expecting it to be educational, good news, it is. If you are expecting permission, here it is. You do not owe anyone prettiness. You do not owe anyone mystery. You do not owe anyone shame. You are allowed to be comfortable here. Clothes on or off.

Also, grab a towel. Trust me.