A book in which I lose my bikini bottom, find my true self, and accidentally traumatize a pizza delivery guy

So here we are. You, probably clothed. Me, writing this from a lawn chair in my backyard with absolutely zero fabric between me and this sticky vinyl seat. Yes, it’s hot. Yes, my butt is lightly suctioned. And yes, I’m still going to sit here and tell you the gospel truth: being naked is the most freeing thing I’ve ever done in my life, next to breaking up with Chad the Tax Guy who thought wearing Crocs during sex was sexy. (It wasn’t.)

Now, before you start imagining some glamorized Instagram-ready version of nude living where we all look like Greek statues and sip cucumber water in minimalist gardens, let me stop you right there. Real nudism? It’s lumpy. It’s awkward. It involves a lot of sunscreen and a whole lot of towel discipline. But it’s also hilarious, life-changing, and shockingly practical. This book is for you if you’ve ever thought, “I wish I could just take off my pants and not get arrested or excommunicated.”

I didn’t grow up naked. I grew up in Nebraska, where we wore long underwear under our long underwear. My first brush with nudity was not empowering. It was at a water park, age seventeen, when a poorly tied bikini bottom got claimed by a rogue wave. I emerged from that tube slide like a hairless prairie dog, squealing, scrambling, traumatized. And yet, something deep in me awakened. A breeze, a moment of freedom, a lifeguard with a beard I still dream about—something told me: this is who you are.

But I didn’t go full-nude until I was thirty-three. I had just gone through a breakup with a man named Derek (who collected swords, I should’ve known). I was emotionally raw, physically flabby, and spiritually stuck. Then Tanya, my best friend since the eighth grade and eternal pain in my bare ass, dared me to go to a “clothing optional” hot springs weekend. Now, Tanya had already become a self-declared nudist. She’s one of those people who has perfect eyebrows even in 100% humidity and claims her butt has “natural lift.” Whatever. I went.

And reader, I got naked. Not in a sexy, candlelit, slow-motion way. No. I tripped on a flip-flop, spilled a margarita down my front, and flashed the staff before even signing the waiver. But once the panic faded and the tequila hit, I realized—I wasn’t dying. No one ran away screaming. I wasn’t being judged. I was just... me. Jiggly, soft, lopsided, freckly me. And it felt fantastic.

So this book? It’s not a nudist manifesto. I’m not trying to convince you to sell your pants and join a commune. But I am here to tell you: going naked sometimes, in safe and appropriate places, can completely change your life. Whether you want to dip a toe into the lifestyle or just stop feeling weird about your own body, you’re in the right place.

We’ll talk about the real stuff. How to survive your first nudist event without crying. What to bring, what NOT to bring (Susan once brought glitter body lotion and we’re still banned from that campground). How to explain your lifestyle to your mom without her planning an exorcism. And yes, we’ll also discuss hygiene, sitting etiquette, sex (or lack thereof), weatherproofing your nipples, and how to wrestle your best friend when you’re both covered in coconut oil and pride.

This book is full of practical tips like what kind of folding chair won’t turn into a butt waffle, or why Janessa cried the first time she got a mosquito bite on her buttcheek. You’ll learn. You’ll laugh. You’ll cringe. You might even take your pants off by page 74. No pressure. But you’ll want to.

So go ahead, unbutton something. You’re among friends. Naked, ridiculous, wonderful friends.