I am not one for nudity for myself. I like having underwear and some sort of top, be it a shirt of bra. Otherwise, I don’t need pants or shorts, and the bra-shirt is easily an either-or situation. This is somewhat different from where I was as a child, as the bra part was important to me. However, since I was little, one of my favorite outfits for around the house was underwear, a top, and a sweatshirt, possibly also with socks, if it’s cold enough. I have no idea why, but I love this outfit. Nowadays, I love being in a bra, a sweatshirt, and sweat pants (with underwear, of course) when it is cold out – love it. However, I am not one for being entirely without. Yes, I have been working on it much in recent years, and I have reached a whole new level with comfort in my own naked body. No, I still don’t actually enjoy being naked.
And yet, here I am, having sat here for almost two hours at this point, cross-legged on the floor, post-shower, completely naked. And I’m okay. It hasn’t been anything like a spectacular night or anything, but I haven’t been uncomfortable either. There was one point early on, when my body did something, that I wanted to go to the bathroom and get dressed. But, as I was in the middle of something, I put it off briefly. Until I kind of forgot about it. I didn’t forget forget, but it wasn’t bugging me anymore, and I moved my attention elsewhere. Now, it’s been over two hours, I’m writing this whole thing (have paused bunches), and still haven’t gotten up to get dressed. Bizarre. But kind of cool, too.