I am 38 years old and at this point in my life I have accepted that I will never be the kind of woman who wears clothes like a normal person. I live in a perfectly respectable cul de sac outside of Seattle with neighbors who grow hydrangeas and own Labradoodles and pretend not to notice that I unload my groceries from the trunk completely naked. I swear it started small. One day I was like hey it is hot, nobody is out here, I am just gonna let the girls breathe while I grab the milk. Next thing you know I am explaining to a very polite delivery driver that I am a nudist and no he cannot take a picture of my lawn flamingos because I know what he is really aiming for. You would think nudity is all body confidence and free spirit stuff. And sure there is a little of that. But mostly it is logistics. It is about where to put your keys when you have no pockets. It is about sand in places God did not intend for sand to be. It is about bugs. And sunscreen. So much sunscreen. It is about learning to run from a raccoon while holding a bottle of Chardonnay with no pants on. If you are picturing something glamorous stop it right now. I have been nude in situations that would make a raccoon blush. There is nothing chic about nudity when your thighs stick to a folding chair and you are peeling yourself off like an old sticker. And yet here I am, year after year, hopping on a plane to some nudist resort, or dropping my towel at some rocky Pacific beach, chasing that glorious weird mix of fresh air and bad decision making. People always ask how I got started. Honestly it was Tanya's fault. Tanya, who once dared me to skinny dip in Lake Washington at midnight, and Tanya, who still claims her butt is better than mine which, okay, fine, sometimes it is. That night there was a lot of tequila and a police officer who was very nice about the whole thing. But something clicked for me out there under the stars. It was like, oh, so this is what it feels like when you stop worrying about sucking your stomach in and just let your boobs float like a couple of liberated marshmallows. Now before you think this is all orgies and hedonism let me clear that up. Being nude is like camping. You still get bug bites and weird tan lines. It is not some sexy shampoo commercial. Do things get a little raunchy sometimes? Yes. Do you occasionally see a man named Gary doing tai chi in the buff when you are just trying to enjoy your coffee? Also yes. But mostly it is about living life unwrapped, which is liberating and horrifying in equal measure. So that is what this book is about. The good, the bad, and the flabby. The funny disasters and the practical lessons I have learned from being naked in places that range from dreamy to deeply stupid. I am here to tell you everything no one else will. How to sit on a rock without bruising your butt bone. How to avoid poison ivy on your inner thighs. How to make small talk while pretending you are not looking directly at someone's junk. This book is not a manual, it is more like an invitation to laugh with me, maybe learn a few things, and definitely question my life choices. But if you have ever wondered what it is like to live a little wilder, to strip away the polite layers we wrap ourselves in, then buckle up. Actually, wait, there are no buckles. Take those off. We are going to talk about sex on the beach and a hundred other places I probably should have left well enough alone.