Author Description

I'll tell you right now, I ain't one of those Instagram hippies who think moonbathing in your birthday suit automatically aligns your chakras and cleanses your credit score. No ma'am. I tried that once and all I got was a mosquito bite on my left butt cheek and a raccoon who stared too long like he was judging my life decisions. But here's the thing, sugar, getting naked did change me. Not in some hoity-toity way where I started drinking celery juice and using words like "conscious uncoupling." I still eat gas station hot dogs and yell at squirrels. I just do it with a little more self-awareness now. And slightly less polyester. I was raised in a house where modesty was somewhere between holiness and household policy. We didn't talk about bodies unless they were broken or being buried. My grandma would give you a side-eye so sharp it could peel potatoes if your bra strap slipped at Sunday service. So imagine the scandal when I declared I was gonna spend more time in the raw. Not for sex, not for protest, but just because I wanted to feel the breeze between my knees and see what happened when I stopped hiding under 80% off clearance cardigans. Turns out, the less I wore, the more I uncovered. About myself, about the world, about the sheer ridiculousness of so many things we take so dang seriously. I mean, how can you feel like a corporate drone when you're standing in your backyard in nothing but a straw hat and confidence, drinking coffee like you're the queen of your own little naked queendom? There's something about letting it all hang out that makes your brain get quiet and your spirit get loud. It's hard to worry about email when your boobs are doing their own interpretive dance in the wind. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying wisdom lives in your armpits. I'm saying we get closer to it when we stop pretending we're something we're not. And clothing, God bless it, is a fantastic way to pretend. You can dress like a lawyer when you'