Look, I didn't pop out of the womb ready to run bare-assed through the daisies. I mean, technically yes, we all did, but I didn't stay that way. No one does. We get swaddled in itchy footie pajamas, shoved into church dresses with bows the size of dinner plates, and by age twelve, we're in underwire bras and Spanx because the world tells us our jiggle is something to be feared.

But somewhere around 35, after a string of boyfriends who never took the trash out and one truly unfortunate experience involving a hammock, red wine, and an allergic reaction to lavender-scented body oil, I said to myself, "Kristin, what if you just... stopped putting on pants?"

That was the beginning of it. Not the allergic reaction, though that did lead to a very embarrassing ER visit and a nurse who wouldn't make eye contact. I mean the decision to live nude. Not naked in the way you forget a towel when you're home alone, but nude on purpose. Like "Hi Susan, yes I'm at the mailbox in my birthday suit, mind your business."

Living nude, it turns out, is not just about being without clothes. It's about being without apologies. It's freedom, baby. It's flipping the bird to the Victoria's Secret catalog and telling your inner thigh chafing to kiss off. It's realizing that your nipples don't need contouring and your butt crack doesn't have to be a secret.

Now, I live just outside Seattle, which means I'm basically a soggy granola bar with strong opinions about recycling and a closet full of waterproof boots. But don't let the fleece fool you-I've been to nude beaches in Spain, resorts in Palm Springs, and one very questionable nudist commune in Oregon where someone offered me vegan jerky made out of mushrooms and I still have nightmares about it.

This book is not a manual written by a guru who lives off-grid and greets the sun every morning with a sun salutation to her perineum. No, no. This is your girl Kristin, who still eats Pop-Tarts in bed and sometimes forgets to shave one leg. I'm not here to tell you how to perfect nude life. I'm here to tell you how to survive it. With a sense of humor. And possibly a towel. (Seriously, sit on a towel. Always.)

I'll share tips I wish someone had told me, stories of horrifying, hilarious, and completely avoidable mistakes, and yes, a few words about the people who have joined me on this strange, boob-forward journey. Tanya, my best friend and full-time pain in my unclothed ass, will probably show up here and there. So will Susan, who instigates more than she participates. And maybe a boyfriend or five, because I have a type, and that type is "emotionally unavailable with great abs."

If you're here because you're curious about the nude life, bless your heart. If you're here because you're already nude and just want to feel seen-well, not literally seen, unless you're reading this while sprawled across a picnic table at a resort, in which case, carry on. Either way, you've come to the right place.

Let's get real. Let's get honest. Let's get naked.

Just... maybe close the curtains first.