Sassy, Classy, and Cheeky: Sassy, Classy, and Cheeky, cartea 72

I was not born naked. I mean, yes, technically, I was born naked like every other human on planet Earth unless you're some kind of alien baby with built-in cargo shorts. But I wasn't raised naked. I grew up like a normal-ish girl in a split-level in the misty suburbs outside Seattle where modesty was next to godliness and bras were worn to bed just in case there was an earthquake and the neighbors saw you through the rubble.

But then one day I said, "Screw it." Or rather, Tanya did. Tanya Peterson, my longtime partner in poor decisions and bare-ass bravery, dragged me to a clothing-optional hot spring in Oregon where everyone looked like a forest elf and smelled vaguely of patchouli and smoked trout. I was 27, going through a breakup, had just tried cutting my own bangs (never do this), and thought, "What the hell, Kristin. What have you got to lose except your dignity and your tan lines?"

That weekend changed everything. Not because I found God or enlightenment or perfect nipple symmetry, but because I finally realized that I didn't hate my body-I just hated pants.

Now I live a delightfully breezy life. I'm a 38-year-old woman with a healthy collection of towels and a firm belief that thongs are a punishment. I've traveled the world with my booty out, from steamy Croatian beaches to surprisingly well-manicured German spa towns. I've converted friends, scared off lovers, offended distant aunts, and once got chased by a goose while fully nude in rural Canada. True story.

This book? It's my love letter to bare butt living. I'm here to tell you everything I've learned from a decade of cheeky living-what works, what chafes, what to pack (spoiler: not much), and what to say when a man named Steve asks if he can oil your back and then forgets where your back ends.

Along the way, I'll throw in stories. Real ones. Like the time Tanya and I got into a shouting match at a nudist retreat in Arizona over who used up the almond butter, only to be interrupted by a man doing interpretive dance with a flute and an erection. Or the time Susan Hasseltree dared everyone at a naturist potluck to sit on a frozen watermelon. She didn't. But I did.

This is not a manifesto. This is not a preachy guide to freeing your nipples and your soul under a full moon (although, if that's your thing, you do you). This is a PG-13 romp through the real, funny, weird, occasionally itchy, mostly liberating world of being naked on purpose.

If you've ever wondered what it's like to mow your lawn topless or meditate with your labia out or cook bacon with nothing between you and the grease (don't), then honey, you've come to the right place.

So drop your drawers, unhook that bra that's trying to kill you, and come get bare with me. Let's laugh, let's learn, let's lotion those thighs, and above all, let's stop giving a damn what we jiggle when we walk.

Welcome to the naked life. You're gonna love it.