So listen. If you’re holding this book right now, you’re either A) naked, B) thinking about getting naked, or C) fully clothed but dangerously close to unbuttoning your jeans just to see where this is going. All are welcome. Except Brad from yoga—you still owe me ten bucks and an apology for what you called a “communal stretch.”

I’m Kristin. I’m 38, mildly lactose-intolerant, very much single, and living my best naked life. And when I say naked, I mean Naked. Capital N. Like, naked in the woods, naked at brunch, naked while unclogging my own shower drain (a humbling experience that will test your confidence and your gag reflex).

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d become a nudist. No one dreams about going full birthday suit in front of a waffle iron or figuring out how to clean sunscreen out of your butt crack without dislocating a hip. But somehow, somewhere between a messy breakup, a misjudged skinny-dipping dare, and an accidental nudist resort reservation (don’t ask), I ended up here. Gloriously clothes-free, deeply unbothered, and with a fridge that has nothing but wine, pickles, and way too many sauces I can’t identify.

I’m not one of those sun-worshipping, incense-burning, crystal-wearing nudists—though I have burned my lady parts on a hot bench and once dated a man named Indigo who tried to cleanse my chakras with a didgeridoo. No, I’m just a regular gal who realized that pants are a scam and that my boobs don’t like underwires. Honestly, neither do I. They’re rude.

Being a nudist at 38 is a trip. My body makes weird noises when I move too fast. There’s a rogue chin hair that appears once a week like it’s clocking in for a shift. I’m not as perky as I used to be, but I’m way funnier. I’ve got stories. So many stories. Like the time Tanya and I tried to roast marshmallows at a naked camping retreat and she accidentally lit her pubes on fire. Or the time Susan organized a nude wine tasting and passed out in a hammock, snoring like a lawn mower. Or my ex, who broke up with me after I tried to do “sexy naked baking” and burned cinnamon rolls and my left nipple.

But this book isn’t just storytime with my boobs out. I’m here to share everything I’ve learned about nude living: the good, the bad, the sticky. You’ll get real tips, awkward truths, hygiene hacks, beach etiquette, and why you should never, ever trust a plastic lawn chair. I’ll teach you how to walk into a room fully nude and still feel like a damn queen, even if you’ve got a zit on your butt and a mosquito bite on your hoo-ha.

This is for the curious, the cautious, the confident, and the clumsy. You don’t have to be a full-blown nudist to enjoy this book—you just have to be open to the idea that life’s better when you stop hiding the parts of yourself that jiggle, wrinkle, or fart during downward dog.

So grab a towel (your butt will thank you), pour yourself a drink, and let’s streak through life together, one exposed moment at a time.