Hi. I’m Kristin. I’m 38, I own three waffle irons for no reason, and I’ve accidentally flashed the UPS guy so many times I think we’re common-law married now. Welcome to my weird little corner of the nudist universe.

I wasn’t always this way. There was a time I wore clothes like a normal person. Sweaters. Pants. Bras with wires. And then one fateful summer, my best friend Tanya dared me to skinny dip in her neighbor’s pool at 2 a.m. after two and a half bottles of wine and a plate of shrimp tacos. That was the night I discovered two things: one, shrimp and chlorine don’t mix, and two, I really like being naked.

I’m not talking sexy, candlelit, “rose petals on the bed” naked. I mean regular-degular, walking-through-the-house-holding-a-cheese-stick, yelling-at-the-TV naked. Nude living, baby. Skin out, soul free, boobs at peace.

Now before you go picturing me as some serene, glowy forest goddess weaving flower crowns out of hemp, let me clear something up: I am a hot mess. I once got my thigh stuck to a pleather chair for an entire dinner party. I once did naked Pilates in front of a window not realizing the mailman was delivering a package and a show. I have opinions about where not to sit after using body oil and I will share them whether you want me to or not.

People always ask me the same things when they find out I’m a nudist. Do you ever wear clothes? Yes, mostly when I have to go to the bank. Is it a sex thing? Not unless I’m on a date and it’s going well. Isn’t it weird? Oh honey, what isn’t weird anymore? I once saw a man bring his pet iguana to a farmer’s market. Nude people don’t scare me. Iguanas in baby slings do.

This book is a wild little journey into the delightful, slightly unhinged world of nude living. I’m gonna tell you how to do it, what not to do, what parts of your body will stick to leather, and how to explain to your Aunt Marlene why you’re posting beach selfies with no tan lines. And yes, I will absolutely tell you about the time I went skinny dipping with my ex’s cousin and how that mess spiraled into a whole weekend of chaos, tequila, and a hammock injury.

You’re gonna get advice, stories, too much honesty, and probably a mental image or two you can never unsee. But most of all, you’re gonna get me, in all my naked glory, figuratively and unfortunately sometimes literally.

So grab a towel [because furniture is expensive and nobody wants to sit in someone else’s butt juice], pour a drink, and get comfy. The clothes are off. The stories are on. Let’s get into it.