I Walk Around Naked as Much as Possible

My skin is happiest when there is no fabric trying to bunch into its crevices. Deciding what to wear is a nuisance, and if I'm bloated, everything looks strained. If I have to pee quickly, it's pleasant not having to unclasp, unbutton, or untangle. Sex is easiest without clothes.

I love being naked.

Luckily, I live on an acre of land and can walk to pretty much any part of the property without my white hiney and drained, breastfeeding boobs being spotted by human eyes (the squirrels can't get enough). An unexpected delivery truck did once pull up the driveway when I was taking out the trash, my body unadorned with clothing — it was awkward.

I have no desire to join a nudist colony — I wouldn't know where to look when talking to someone. But I do wish clothing never became a "thing." At least in Southern California, where it is usually warm enough to make clothing optional. If we never became accustomed to wearing clothes, it wouldn't be rude to stare at someone's different-colored nipples during a debate about the weather.

And wouldn't parties be so much more entertaining if everyone was just wearing dress shoes, bow ties, and hats?

I'm not often naked in front of my son though, as he just tries to procure milk from my boobs if they're available. The sight of my breasts makes him think it's time for a feeding.

I'm strategic about when I'm naked in front of my husband too. I don't want to entice him if I'm not in the mood​.

My nakedness is for me.

It makes me feel free, feminine, and connected to nature.

That said, I used to hate being naked.

In my late teens and early 20s, I would keep a towel wrapped around me after a shower while puttering in the bathroom, I would wear a bathing suit in the shower at the gym, and I would banish lights while having sex (or try to slip my shirt back on while my boyfriend was occupied elsewhere).

I was a professional body-shamer, with my only target being myself. I didn't like the way my thighs chafed, and I loved big, belly-bulge-covering sweatshirts.

All this body-hiding made me fold within, alone with doubt and self-judgment, only inviting food and television to join me. This did little to raise my body confidence.

This changed in my mid-20s when I got pregnant, and everything became huge and bloated. I was so proud of my body for making a baby, I would just stare at it, loving it all, even my bloated elbows. And nothing but nakedness fit comfortably.

After birthing in the buff, I was addicted. In the first weeks of my baby's life, I would only put on pants if company was coming over but rarely bothered with a shirt – that's what the nursing baby was for. If I had to go into the public realm, I would wear a shirt, but I was so done with bras. Especially underwire. Never again. They're masochistic!

I am free and being naked is a stark reminder of that. 

Stripping down to my physical purity forces me to love myself. When I stop hiding my saggy butt, thick thighs, squishy tummy, uneven boobs, and wrinkly elbows, I love them all, every last dimple of cellulite included.

I have plenty of moments where I feel like an odd-shaped sausage trying to fit into a pair of pants that are just off. ​But when I'm naked, I'm not trying to fit my body into a space it doesn't want to go. It's free to enjoy its organic placement in this world.

I'm going to strip down and go water the garden now. Here's hoping I didn't forget about an Amazon package that's being delivered today.

​Follow Bailey on Twitter.