Let me start by saying this: I didn’t grow up thinking, “You know what would make my adult life better? Fewer pants.” No. I grew up like most people—squirming into Spanx, fighting with underwire, and crying in Target dressing rooms under the soul-crushing glow of fluorescent lighting. Nudity was for showers and sex, and sometimes not even then.

But one fine Tuesday afternoon, while trying to air out a rash (don’t ask), sipping wine from a coffee mug (don’t judge), and scrolling through the internet with a fan aimed directly at my crotch, I stumbled upon an article titled something like “The Freedom of Living Clothes-Free.” I don’t remember most of it except for one line that said, “What if the problem isn’t your body—what if it’s your pants?”

That’s how it started. With wine, a rash, and a bold theory about pants being the enemy. And now here we are.

If you’re reading this, I’m guessing you’re at least nudity-curious. Maybe you’ve skinny-dipped and liked it. Maybe you’ve always wondered what it’s like to cook bacon naked (don’t). Or maybe you’re just tired of synthetic fibers rubbing you the wrong way—literally and emotionally.

This book isn’t some holier-than-thou nudist manifesto. I’m not here to shame you for liking leggings. I still have a drawer full of them. Well, technically I had a drawer, but it’s now where I store my spare wine openers and a rogue vibrator I’m too scared to use again after The Incident. More on that later.

No, this book is just me—Kristin—your slightly unhinged, definitely naked friend, here to walk you through the chaos, the comedy, and the unfiltered glory of nude living. You’ll get the real-deal tips I’ve learned through trial, error, and one unfortunate slip on a wet deck that ended in an emergency room visit and a doctor who couldn’t stop giggling. (Doctor Patel, if you’re reading this, I still want my co-pay back.)

You’ll hear about my best friend Tanya, who thinks nudism is just an excuse to show off her “superior ass genetics.” She once tried to host a nude brunch and almost poisoned half the attendees with undercooked eggs. And there’s Susan, who once dared us all to go to a nude beach but kept her cover-up on and pretended to be allergic to sand. I’m still mad about that.

But mostly, you’re going to hear from me—about my body, my awkward moments, my boyfriends (so many boyfriends), and how I learned to stop hating mirrors and start loving what I saw, cellulite and all.

I’m here to make you laugh, maybe snort, and definitely think twice about why we put so much pressure on ourselves to hide the one thing every single human on Earth has: a body. Yours might sag, jiggle, chafe, or surprise you with a rogue nipple hair now and then, but it’s yours. And living without clothes isn’t about showing it off. It’s about not hiding from yourself.

So strip down, buttercup. We’re about to get into the naked truth.