Hi, I am Kristin, and I am 38 years old, which means I am finally at that golden age where my knees pop every time I stand up, I keep a pair of glasses in every room, and I also do not care what you think of my bare butt. And yes, you will hear a lot about my bare butt in these pages because I accidentally became a nudist and frankly, pants are now the enemy. I did not grow up thinking I would one day be that woman who takes a call from her mortgage broker while sitting completely naked on a deck chair with a margarita in one hand and a streak of sunblock across my left boob, but here we are. Life is funny like that. It all started in the suburbs just outside of Seattle, where I thought the wildest thing I would ever do was switch to oat milk before it was cool. And yet here I am, a woman who spends a suspicious amount of time with no clothes on, and surprisingly, not arrested. What you need to know is that I am not one of those mystical, earth-mother, drape-yourself-in-a-linen-toga-and-speak-softly kinds of nudists. No, I am the kind who will trip over my own flip-flops, spill coffee on my boobs, and scream "SON OF A BISCUIT" loud enough to make the seagulls fly away. My friends think this is hilarious, mostly because half the time they are there to witness it, and the other half they are the reason it is happening. Take Tanya, for example. Tanya is my best friend and the biggest pain in the left cheek (both literally and figuratively) that a woman could have. Tanya has this smug habit of comparing her butt to mine every single time we are at a nude beach, like we are two peaches at a farmer's market and she is sure hers is juicier. The other day she actually told me, while putting on coconut oil, that my butt looks like a "retired balloon." And because I am a mature adult, I told her to shut up, then wrestled her into the sand until we both looked like two croquettes. Meanwhile, Susan stood there eating pretzels and heckling us like she was a judge on a very sad talent show. But enough about Tanya's overinflated ego and Susan's sodium intake. This book is really about what happens when you start to live without clothes, and how that changes your brain and your life in the best and weirdest ways. You might think nudity is all sexy and romantic like a steamy European film, but let me tell you something. The first time you are stark naked in public, it is less "romance" and more "oh no where do I put my hands." There is a whole process to it, a slow deflating of the part of your brain that thinks your thighs must be covered at all times and a blossoming of a new part that just wants to feel a breeze where the sun usually does not shine. In the beginning, I thought being naked around other people was going to be horrifying. And the first time, it was. I got a rash. A real rash. And that rash was mostly from my nerves but also because I had been sitting on a scratchy wooden bench at a nudist resort in Greece (note to self: pack a towel next time). But by day three, something in me clicked. My body was still my body, my flaws were still there, my belly did not magically flatten, but suddenly, I just did not care. I was too busy slathering sunscreen on my armpits and giggling with a bunch of strangers who had somehow also decided that pants are an overcomplicated scam. So if you are here, reading this, maybe you are curious. Maybe you want to know why someone like me, a suburban woman with a Costco membership and a deep emotional attachment to flannel pajamas, is now trying to convert the world to the way of the naked. It is because I believe there is a whole lot of freedom, joy, and pure unfiltered ridiculousness waiting for you on the other side of that waistband.