So here we are. You, with your clothes on (probably), and me, butt-naked in a mesh patio chair with one cheek sticking to the seat and the other contemplating its life choices. If that visual makes you laugh or squirm a little, welcome. You’re already halfway to becoming a nudist. Or at least to understanding why in the name of all that is cotton-free I’ve chosen a life where laundry is a rare event and sunscreen is applied in places that would shock your aunt Carol. Now before you clutch your pearls or your boxer briefs, let me tell you something right off the bat. I wasn’t born naked. I mean, I was , technically, but I didn’t stay naked. I did the whole normal life thing for a good while. Clothes, bras, itchy sweaters, tight jeans, thong underwear that felt like dental floss for my soul—yeah, all of it. I even had a phase in my late twenties where I bought matching pajamas like I was about to star in a Hallmark movie. But deep down, I knew something was missing. I just didn’t realize it was pants. The real kicker came one hot, sticky July afternoon when my best friend Tanya and I were lounging in my backyard. We’d been drinking wine out of mismatched mugs, because that’s just the kind of elegance we bring to the table, and it was too damn hot for clothes. So off they went. And I swear to you on my grandmother’s lasagna recipe, the clouds parted, the sun kissed my boobs like an old friend, and I felt truly free. Not just physically. I mean emotionally, spiritually, comically free. Even my thighs were clapping in celebration. Of course, Tanya immediately started bragging about how her boobs tan more evenly than mine. She also insisted her butt had “better bounce,” whatever that means. We argued about it for twenty minutes and ended up wrestling on a beach towel, which led to the infamous first towel betrayal—but that’s for Chapter 1. Let’s just say, things slid south, both literally and metaphorically. Now, I didn’t jump full-throttle into the naked life overnight. No ma’am. There were stages. There was shame. There were weird tan lines and an unfortunate run-in with a zipper that haunts me to this day. But little by little, layer by literal layer, I started peeling back what didn’t serve me anymore—starting with my clothes. And y’all, it has been WILD. This book is a chronicle of those wild adventures, sweaty missteps, and surprisingly helpful tips. I’m talkin’ about everything from how to host a naked brunch without ending up with bacon grease in your cleavage, to how to navigate nude living with grace, humor, and maybe a little wine in a thermos. I’ll tell you about the time I accidentally mooned a pizza delivery guy (and still got a tip!), and why I now have a dedicated “butt blanket” for when guests come over and don’t want skin-to-couch contact. But it’s not just stories. No, sugarplum, it’s also practical advice. Because if you’re gonna be naked, you gotta do it right. There are rules. There are hacks. There are ways to sit, squat, stand, and strut that will keep you comfy and keep the neighbors from calling the HOA. I’m not trying to start a neighborhood revolt, I just want to air out my lady bits in peace. So if you’ve ever thought, “Huh, I wonder what it’s like to mow the lawn in the nude,” or “Could I actually make it through a dinner party without pants?”—this book is for you. If you’ve ever dreamed of skinny dipping and then panicked about how you’d climb back up the dock without flashing everyone behind you—this book is really for you. And if you’re just here to laugh at my misfortunes, well, sweetheart, buckle up. Or don’t. Because we’re not wearing belts either. Now let’s get to the story of how one slippery towel changed my life, nearly exposed my downstairs to a Texaco parking lot, and set me on the wild, weird, and wonderful path of nude living.