Let me paint you a picture: it’s a Sunday morning. I’m standing in my kitchen, gloriously nude, coffee in one hand, half a cinnamon roll in the other, Fleetwood Mac humming softly through the Bluetooth speaker. The window’s open. My butt is catching just enough breeze to feel like a Disney princess who’s emotionally healed. I am at peace.

Enter my then-boyfriend, Josh. Wearing flannel pajama pants like a man who’s not yet learned that crotch ventilation is self-care. He looks at me—bare, radiant, lightly glazed in cinnamon roll icing—and says:
“Don’t you think you’re a little too comfortable being naked all the time?”

Reader, I blinked.

Too comfortable? As in… enjoying my own skin? As in not treating my body like a war crime to be hidden from polite society?
Too comfortable… in the body I have lived in for 30+ years?

Sir.

That was the moment I realized this man was not my future. He was a sock with a hole in it. A bland quesadilla of a human. A speed bump on my glorious, clothes-optional journey through life.

He wanted me to shrink. To doubt. To cover up not because I wanted to, but because he was uncomfortable with my confidence. And look, I’ve done a lot of things for men. I’ve worn heels so high I lost feeling in my toes. I’ve listened to full descriptions of crypto portfolios. I once pretended to like frisbee golf.

But I will not be shamed for feeling good in my birthday suit while I butter toast.

This book is for anyone who’s ever been told to “tone it down,” to “put something on,” to “leave a little to the imagination.” It's for the ones who've been side-eyed by roommates, boyfriends, neighbors, and that one delivery guy who caught you mid-nude vacuum and now avoids eye contact.

It's for people with stretch marks, belly rolls, uneven boobs, and emotional support freckles. It’s for the lovers of naked naps, naked snacks, naked laundry, and naked truth.

Because the truth is this: comfort in your own body is radical. It’s rebellious. And sometimes? It’s enough to make a mediocre man run scared.

So be it.

If being “too comfortable naked” is a problem—
Then I’m the damn problem.

Welcome to my no-pants manifesto.