Why Nobody Cares What You Do for a Living at a Nudist Resort

Take away the suits, uniforms, watches, cars, offices and job titles, and something interesting happens: people have to decide whether they like you for you.

Written by: The Barefoot Nudist

There is a question we ask almost automatically when meeting someone new.

"So, what do you do?"

It's such a normal part of conversation that we barely notice what we're actually asking.

What do you do for a living?

What's your occupation?

Where do you fit?

In the everyday textile world, the answer can immediately change how someone sees us.

"I'm a doctor."

"I'm a contractor."

"I'm retired."

"I'm a CEO."

"I'm a teacher."

"I'm a mechanic."

"I'm an attorney."

"I'm a truck driver."

"I'm between jobs."

Each answer arrives carrying a suitcase full of assumptions.

Income.

Education.

Status.

Lifestyle.

Intelligence.

Success.

Influence.

Maybe even personality.

But spend enough time at a nudist resort and something interesting happens.

Eventually you realize that nobody seems particularly impressed by any of it.

And strangely enough, that's wonderful.

It's Hard to Dress for Success When Nobody Is Dressed

The textile world gives us countless ways to communicate status without ever introducing ourselves.

A tailored suit says something.

So does a construction uniform.

An expensive handbag says something.

So does a Rolex.

Designer shoes.

Company logos.

Jewelry.

Uniforms.

Golf shirts.

Work boots.

Fashion labels.

Even the way someone dresses casually can provide clues about income, occupation, interests and social circles.

We read these signals constantly.

Then you walk into a nudist resort.

And somebody has apparently unplugged the entire system.

There are no $2,000 suits beside the pool.

No designer dresses.

No work uniforms.

No expensive shoes.

Actually, there probably aren't many shoes at all.

Suddenly, one of society's oldest ways of advertising status has disappeared.

The person sitting beside you could run a company employing 500 people.

Or fix air conditioners.

Or teach third grade.

Or drive a truck.

Or be retired.

You have absolutely no idea.

So you do something wonderfully inconvenient.

You get to know them first.

Your Résumé Doesn't Fit on a Beach Towel

Imagine trying to establish professional dominance at a nudist resort.

"I'm the senior vice president of..."

That's terrific.

Could you move your chair a little? You're blocking the cooler.

"I manage a multimillion-dollar..."

Wonderful.

We're playing cornhole at four.

You in?

There is something delightfully humbling about an environment where everyone is reduced to approximately the same social uniform:

Sunscreen.

Sunglasses.

A towel.

Maybe a hat.

And whatever personality you brought with you.

Your LinkedIn profile doesn't help much here.

Neither does the size of your office.

Nobody knows where you park at work.

Nobody knows whether your business card says President, Technician, Director, Owner or Assistant.

And unless you're determined to tell everyone, nobody needs to.

Success Doesn't Disappear. It Just Stops Being the Introduction.

This doesn't mean naturists don't care about careers.

Quite the opposite.

People are interested in one another.

Eventually professions come up.

Sometimes the conversations are fascinating.

You discover the guy you've been talking to for two hours designed bridges.

The woman sitting across from you spent thirty years as a nurse.

Someone flew airplanes.

Someone owned restaurants.

Someone served in the military.

Someone built houses.

Someone spent decades working in manufacturing.

Someone started a company from nothing.

Someone is happily retired and has absolutely no intention of discussing work ever again.

Those stories are interesting.

But there's an important difference.

You often meet the person before you meet the profession.

That changes everything.

Instead of someone's occupation determining whether you find them interesting, you already know they're interesting.

The career becomes another chapter in their story.

Not their identity.

The CEO and the Electrician Need the Same Sunscreen

One of the most interesting things about naturist environments is the variety of people you'll encounter.

Different careers.

Different incomes.

Different education levels.

Different hometowns.

Different backgrounds.

Different generations.

In ordinary life, those people might rarely socialize.

Our social circles tend to organize themselves around invisible boundaries.

We spend time with coworkers.

Neighbors.

Professional peers.

People from similar economic circumstances.

People who participate in the same organizations.

Naturist communities can scramble those boundaries.

The business owner and the electrician might spend an afternoon talking about fishing.

The physician and the retired truck driver discover they both restore motorcycles.

The teacher and the engineer realize they've camped at the same national parks.

The accountant and the carpenter become fiercely competitive pickleball partners.

Nobody planned these combinations.

They just happened.

Because when the normal sorting mechanisms disappear, people start sorting themselves according to something else.

Who do I enjoy being around?

Wealth Becomes Surprisingly Difficult to See

Money has countless costumes.

Cars.

Homes.

Clothing.

Jewelry.

Restaurants.

Neighborhoods.

Vacations.

Accessories.

In everyday life, we constantly receive little clues about someone's financial situation.

At a nudist resort, many of those clues become less visible.

Of course, differences still exist.

Someone may arrive in a beautiful motorhome while somebody else pulls in with a twenty-year-old travel trailer.

One person may stay in a premium cabin while another pitches a tent.

Naturism doesn't erase economics.

But around the pool?

The distinction becomes remarkably unimportant.

The water doesn't care.

Neither does the hot tub.

And the Adirondack chair certainly isn't checking anyone's credit score.

Eventually everyone ends up occupying roughly the same few square feet of sunshine.

You Can't Wear Your Authority Into the Pool

There is another fascinating thing that disappears.

Hierarchy.

Outside the resort, someone may command an organization.

Someone else may supervise fifty employees.

Another person may spend their entire workday being told what to do.

Inside the resort, those relationships don't exist.

Nobody reports to anybody.

Nobody is conducting performance reviews.

Nobody is trying to earn a promotion.

There isn't much reason to impress the person beside you.

You're simply adults sharing the same space.

And that creates conversations that might never happen elsewhere.

A person accustomed to being treated according to their title suddenly gets treated according to their personality.

That can be incredibly refreshing.

For everyone.

Character Becomes the Currency

When the usual markers of status disappear, something else becomes more valuable.

Are you funny?

Are you kind?

Can you tell a good story?

Do you listen when someone else is talking?

Will you help your neighbor back their RV into a difficult campsite?

Will you grab another chair when somebody joins the group?

Will you introduce the newcomer standing awkwardly nearby?

Will you make people feel welcome?

Do people enjoy having you around?

Those things matter.

Nobody cares how impressive your résumé is if you're unpleasant.

And nobody cares whether your job sounds prestigious if you're the person everybody hopes sits beside them at dinner.

That's a remarkably healthy little economy.

Character becomes the currency.

Retirement Makes the Question Even More Interesting

Naturist resorts also tend to attract plenty of retirees.

Ask someone who has been retired for ten years what they "do" and you might get a laugh.

They used to be an executive.

Or a mechanic.

Or a nurse.

Or a firefighter.

Or an engineer.

But they're not anymore.

So who are they now?

They're the guy who makes unbelievable ribs.

The woman who organizes Saturday morning walks.

The couple who has traveled through forty-three states in their RV.

The person who always remembers everyone's name.

The guy who somehow knows how to fix absolutely everything.

Their professional identity faded.

Their actual identity didn't.

Maybe that's something the rest of us could learn from.

We Are More Than What Pays Us

Modern culture has a strange habit of turning occupations into identities.

We don't usually say:

"I practice medicine."

We say:

"I'm a doctor."

We don't say:

"I teach."

We say:

"I'm a teacher."

Work becomes woven into our understanding of who we are.

And work matters.

Careers can provide enormous meaning, accomplishment and purpose.

But they aren't the entire person.

Naturist communities have a funny way of reminding us of that.

Because eventually someone you've known for several weekends casually mentions what they do for work and you think:

"Wait. That's what you do?"

You had no idea.

You already knew everything else.

You knew they loved old cars.

You knew where they grew up.

You knew their dog's name.

You knew their favorite campground.

You knew they made dangerously strong margaritas.

You knew they hated losing at cornhole.

You knew their stories.

Their occupation was simply another detail.

Maybe that's the order things were supposed to happen in.

The Most Important Question Changes

Outside the gates, we often ask:

"What do you do?"

Inside, the better questions seem to emerge naturally.

Where are you from?

How did you discover naturism?

Where have you traveled?

How long have you been coming here?

What are you cooking?

Where are you headed next?

Want to join us?

Those questions don't establish hierarchy.

They establish connection.

And perhaps that's why conversations at nudist resorts can feel so different.

Nobody is interviewing you.

Nobody is networking.

Nobody is evaluating whether knowing you might be professionally useful.

They're just talking.

Nobody Cares What You Do. They Care Who You Are.

Eventually, occupations do come up.

Of course they do.

We're curious creatures, and careers are part of our stories.

But the beautiful thing is how little they seem to matter afterward.

Tomorrow morning the CEO and the mechanic will still be drinking coffee together.

The attorney will still need somebody to help move the umbrella.

The contractor will still tell terrible jokes.

The retired teacher will still destroy everyone at pickleball.

And nobody's title earns them a better chair around the campfire.

That's the quiet lesson hiding inside all of this.

The textile world gives us countless ways to tell people who we're supposed to be.

Our clothes.

Our careers.

Our possessions.

Our titles.

Our status.

Naturism removes many of those signals and asks a much simpler question:

Who are you when none of that is doing the talking for you?

Maybe that's one reason people from completely different walks of life become friends so easily at nudist resorts.

They don't meet the résumé.

They don't meet the title.

They don't meet the wardrobe.

They meet the person.

And once you've met the person, what they do for a living somehow doesn't seem nearly as important.