Okay, listen. Before you clutch your pearls and gasp “Oh my God, she’s naked again,” let me just say: yes. I am. Probably. If I’m home and the windows are closed and nobody’s mowing the lawn next door, there’s a 92% chance I’m totally butt-ass naked right now. You clicked on a book called The Time I Answered the Door Naked… so honestly, I feel like the nudity part shouldn’t be the most shocking thing happening to you today.

Now, you might be wondering, How does a seemingly functional, semi-responsible adult woman with two houseplants and a Costco membership just casually end up naked… a lot? Well, friend, that is what we call “the journey.” And you are now on it with me, whether you like it or not. Welcome. Please remove your shoes. And maybe your pants. Just saying.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t plan to become a nudist. Nobody wakes up one day and says, “You know what I should do today? Ruin patio furniture with my bare ass.” It starts small. First, you ditch the bra. Then, you start sleeping in the nude. Then one day you’re butt naked holding a spatula and a banana, answering the door to a man delivering a 38-pound box of protein powder you don’t even remember ordering. (More on that in Chapter One. Spoiler: he saw everything.)

This lifestyle? It’s not all graceful yoga poses on a beach at sunset. Sometimes it’s slipping on your own thigh sweat while trying to open a stuck pickle jar. Sometimes it’s getting stuck to a pleather seat. Sometimes it’s realizing, way too late, that you’ve been talking to your mail carrier completely bottomless for three minutes and the eye contact has gone from polite to deeply spiritual.

But here's the shocker: I love living naked. Not for the Instagram clout—I’m not posing on a rock in the woods with my butt pointed at the sun like some kind of photosynthetic womb witch. I’m just a woman in her thirties, trying to avoid tan lines, reclaim her weirdly-shaped boobs, and find her damn car keys without the restriction of elastic waistbands. You’d be amazed what happens when you take your pants off and suddenly remember who you are under all that Lycra.

Now don’t worry, this isn’t some crunchy granola handbook that ends with you joining a commune and naming your armpits. I’m not here to shame your jeans or make you chant under moonlight (unless you want to—then BYO wine). I’m just here to share the absolutely ridiculous, surprisingly empowering, and frequently mortifying adventures of going nude, and to hand out some hard-earned tips so you don’t accidentally moon your neighbor’s toddler like I did. Twice.

So grab a drink. Maybe remove one sock, just to get in the vibe. Loosen your waistband. And get ready. Because this book has zero chill, lots of butts, and more life lessons than you’d think could come from a woman who once got sunburned on her areola at a jazz festival.

Let’s get naked, baby.