Hi. I’m Kristin. I’m 38 years old, my thighs touch, my boobs are slightly uneven, and I haven’t worn real pants since the Obama administration. You’re reading this because you’re at least curious about being naked, or maybe you’re just looking for a book to hide behind while you’re secretly topless on your back porch. Either way, welcome to the magical, breezy, and slightly sunburn-prone world of nude living.

Let me get one thing out of the way: I wasn’t born nude. Well, I was, obviously, but I mean spiritually. Metaphorically. Existentially. My journey into living in the buff didn’t begin with a philosophical awakening or a slow walk into the ocean while shedding my Target bikini. Nope. It began because I spilled chardonnay on my only pair of clean leggings before a Zoom call, said screw it, and realized no one could see my lower half. Fast forward a few years and now I own more sunscreen than I do socks.

I live just outside Seattle, Washington, where it rains nine months out of the year and you need permission slips from your neighbors to plant a geranium in your front yard. Which is why I spend a lot of time traveling to warmer places where my nipples aren’t in a constant state of emergency. But my nudity doesn’t take a vacation. It follows me like a very confident, very underdressed puppy.

People think being a nudist is either pervy or brave. It’s neither. It’s laundry-efficient and, frankly, just practical. You ever tried to find a swimsuit that doesn’t shove your labia into a witness protection program? I have. It’s called “every summer since 1999.” And don’t even get me started on underwire. Whoever invented that hated joy and nipples equally.

This book isn’t a manifesto, it’s more like a strip tease of my life—equal parts funny, weird, and maybe a little too honest. I’ve had sand in places sand should never be. I’ve done naked cartwheels. I’ve fought my best friend Tanya while we were both naked in a hot tub because she claimed my ex texted her a winky face emoji. (It was a typo. He meant a semicolon. We’re fine now.)

I’ll give you the tips, tricks, and hard-earned wisdom of a woman who once walked into a nudist resort on a Tuesday afternoon and didn’t leave for three days because she lost her clothes and also her dignity, but mostly her clothes.

So if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to go grocery shopping in a sarong and nothing else, or how to handle an unexpected erection during naked charades (spoiler: ignore it and keep miming), then this is the book for you.

You don’t need to be a certain size, shape, or confidence level to start living nude. You just need to say, “Screw it,” take your pants off, and open your mind. And maybe invest in some really good bug spray. Seriously. Ants are ruthless.

Let’s get cheeky.