I didn’t set out to be naked. Not in life, not at that party, not in front of seventeen strangers and a suspiciously muscular cat named Pico. But here we are. Fully unclothed. Figuratively and very, very literally.

Let me back up.

It all started with a house party. Tanya, my best friend-slash-frenemy-slash-twin flame in chaos, had invited me to “a chill gathering of like-minded free spirits” which should have been my first red flag. If you ever hear Tanya say “chill,” what she actually means is: there will be nakedness, someone will vomit in a potted plant, and Susan will definitely challenge someone to eat something from the fridge that expired during the Bush administration. The first one.

Now, I had worn a cute little sundress because I thought this was going to be one of those whimsical, flower-crown-in-your-hair types of parties. You know, wine, music, maybe a guy named Travis playing acoustic guitar poorly in a corner while staring longingly at Janessa. Instead, it was what I like to call an “accidental nudist awakening,” which is when you arrive fully dressed, get handed a mango seltzer and a slice of papaya, and five minutes later realize you are the only person with pants on. It’s subtle. Like carbon monoxide. Or glitter herpes.

I panicked, of course. Not in a dramatic, shrieky way, but in that internal “Oh sweet mother of goose, how did I end up in a room full of butt cheeks and someone’s dad doing a yoga headstand by the bookshelf” kind of way. Tanya, of course, was already naked. She’d somehow oiled herself up like a sexy turkey and was bragging about how her ass had recently been described as “life-affirming” by a man named Rafael who may or may not have been on shrooms.

“Girl, take that dress off,” she said, sipping something pink and ominous. “Let your soul breathe through your nipples.”

That is not a medically recognized thing, by the way.

So I did it. I peeled off that sundress like it was made of regret and baby wipes. And y’all. I’m not going to lie. At first, I was convinced every single person was staring at me and my right boob, which has always had a mind of its own. She points slightly southwest and refuses to apologize. But then something wild happened.

Nobody cared.

Nobody gasped. Nobody pointed. Nobody even looked twice. Some guy named Doug just offered me a deviled egg like I wasn’t completely topless. It was strangely liberating. And also, deviled eggs at a nude party? Bold. Very bold.

Now, I’m not saying I immediately became a full-time nudist that night. I didn’t walk out of there singing kumbaya and throwing my underwear into the wind. No. I still wore socks to bed for another three weeks, which I understand is its own kind of perversion. But something shifted. I felt less... ashamed. Less obsessed with how my thighs smooshed together when I sat down or how my belly folded when I laughed too hard at Tanya falling off a yoga ball trying to twerk.

That house party was the beginning. The moment I realized I didn’t need shapewear to be lovable, or mascara to be funny, or a bra to feel worthy. I just needed to let go. Of my clothes, sure, but also of the weird emotional clutter that had me convinced I had to earn the right to be seen.

So yeah. I lost my clothes at a house party. And I found a version of myself that wasn’t obsessed with sucking in her stomach or posing at a flattering angle. She was sweaty, and weird, and may or may not have sat in a bowl of hummus. But she was real. And she was mine.

This book is for everyone who’s ever been too scared to take their shirt off at the beach. Or looked at their thighs and muttered "traitors." Or worried that their areolas weren’t cute enough for polite society. I got you. We’re getting naked in the most glorious, hilarious, self-loving way possible.

Get ready, darling. The clothes are coming off.