The Funniest Thing About Becoming a Nudist: Clothes Start Feeling Weird

Nobody warns you that taking your clothes off is only half the adjustment. Eventually, you have to put the ridiculous things back on.

Written by: The Barefoot Nudist

There is a moment in almost every new nudist's journey when something deeply unexpected happens.

It isn't the first time you take your clothes off around other people.

It isn't the first time you walk across a pool deck naked.

It isn't even the first time you realize you've completely forgotten you're naked.

It's later.

Usually when you're leaving.

You pick up the clothes you abandoned several hours earlier.

You look at them.

Underwear.

Shorts.

Shirt.

Socks.

Shoes.

And suddenly you have a question:

We wear all of this every day?

Yesterday, getting dressed required no thought whatsoever.

Today it looks like you're preparing for a minor expedition.

Welcome to one of naturism's funniest side effects.

Clothes start feeling weird.

This Wasn't Supposed to Happen

Before someone's first naturist experience, almost all the anxiety points in one direction.

Taking clothes off.

Can I really do this?

Will I feel exposed?

Will people look?

What if I'm uncomfortable?

How long before it feels normal?

Nobody worries about the reverse journey.

Nobody sits in their car before visiting a nudist resort thinking:

"But what if putting my pants back on later feels strange?"

That possibility doesn't even make the list.

Then, several hours later, you're standing there holding your underwear thinking:

Do I really need these?

Civilization has apparently become very complicated.

Clothing Was Invisible Until It Wasn't

Most of us barely notice our clothes.

You wake up.

Shower.

Get dressed.

Continue with your life.

Once they're on, clothing becomes background information.

You don't spend eight hours consciously thinking:

I'm wearing pants.

At least hopefully not.

But spend an entire day without clothes and something changes.

Your body gets used to nothing touching it.

No waistband.

No collar.

No sleeves.

No fabric.

No straps.

Then you put clothes back on.

And suddenly you can feel everything.

The Waistband Has Some Explaining to Do

Let's begin with pants.

For your entire life, you've accepted a band of fabric squeezing your waist as completely reasonable.

Then you spend Saturday without one.

Sunday morning arrives.

You put on shorts.

Your body immediately files a complaint.

What's this?

That's the waistband.

Why is it touching us?

Because we're wearing shorts.

Why?

We're going to breakfast.

And breakfast requires abdominal compression?

Apparently.

Questions are being raised.

Underwear Becomes a Philosophical Problem

Underwear is even stranger.

After spending enough time nude, putting underwear back on can feel like wrapping something simply because society has agreed that wrapping is the correct procedure.

You hold it.

Look at it.

Your brain knows exactly what it's for.

But another part of your brain has started asking uncomfortable questions.

Why does this need its own garment?

Then pants go over it?

Two layers?

In August?

Who approved this?

Naturism has turned getting dressed into an engineering review.

Shirts Are Suddenly Everywhere

Next comes the shirt.

You put it on.

Now there's fabric on your shoulders.

Chest.

Back.

Arms.

You can feel the seams.

The collar.

The tag.

Was that tag always there?

How have you tolerated this tag for three years?

You begin developing opinions about textile manufacturing that you never expected to possess.

And Then There Are Socks

Socks deserve their own investigation.

You spent the afternoon barefoot.

Grass under your feet.

Warm pool deck.

Cool tile.

Maybe sand.

Everything felt great.

Now you're stuffing your feet into little fabric envelopes.

Why?

Because shoes are coming.

Of course they are.

The foot bureaucracy has multiple departments.

Shoes Become Tiny Foot Prisons

Before naturism:

Shoes.

Normal.

After a long barefoot weekend:

WHY ARE MY FEET IN BOXES?

Suddenly every toe would like independent representation.

Your feet have tasted freedom.

They're not surrendering quietly.

This may explain why flip-flops are practically formalwear at many nudist resorts.

They're the diplomatic compromise between society and toes.

Then You Get Into the Car

Fully dressed.

Seat belt on.

Air conditioning running.

Everything is normal again.

Except it isn't.

You can feel the clothes.

The shirt is touching the seat.

The waistband feels unnecessarily ambitious.

Your shoes seem heavier than you remember.

You begin adjusting things.

Pulling.

Straightening.

Moving fabric around.

And suddenly you remember something.

You didn't adjust anything all afternoon.

Because there was nothing to adjust.

Swimming Ruins Swimsuits Forever

This may be the most dangerous discovery.

Swimming nude.

The first time, it may feel daring.

Then you actually start swimming.

And the brain immediately conducts a cost-benefit analysis.

Water.

Skin.

Nothing between them.

This is excellent.

Then you get out.

No wet fabric.

Nothing clinging.

Nothing sagging.

Nothing requiring adjustment.

Nothing to change out of.

You dry off.

Done.

Then someday you go to a regular pool.

You put on a swimsuit.

Get into the water.

And immediately think:

Why am I wearing wet upholstery?

Swimwear has lost the argument.

Pockets Are the One Thing Clothes Got Right

We should be fair.

Clothing does have one extraordinary feature.

Pockets.

Naturism has yet to produce a convincing substitute.

Phone.

Keys.

Wallet.

Sunglasses.

Lip balm.

All the tiny objects civilization requires us to transport.

Without pockets, every nudist eventually develops a logistics department.

Towel bag.

Beach bag.

Backpack.

Chair pocket.

Cooler.

Partner who remembered to bring a bag.

You'll eventually reach toward your hip for your phone.

No pocket.

Right.

Naked.

This is the one moment when pants briefly regain credibility.

You Start Dressing According to Minimum Viable Clothing

Once clothing becomes optional in part of your life, something else may happen.

You become remarkably efficient when clothing is required.

Before:

What should I wear?

After:

What is the absolute minimum textile requirement for this activity?

Going into town?

Shorts.

Shirt.

Flip-flops.

Done.

Going to the resort office?

Depends on the rules.

Driving somewhere?

What's legally and practically necessary?

Formal event?

You stare into your closet with growing resentment.

A necktie?

Surely we've evolved beyond this.

The Closet Starts Looking Different

Your closet used to represent options.

Now part of it looks like inventory.

Twenty shirts.

Why?

Twelve pairs of shorts.

For what possible emergency?

Jeans.

Multiple pairs.

Apparently Past You anticipated an enormous amount of denim activity.

Naturism can quietly change your relationship with clothing.

You may start caring less about having lots of clothes and more about having a few things that are extremely comfortable when clothes are actually necessary.

Laundry Becomes Personally Offensive

Then comes perhaps the greatest naturist revelation of all.

Laundry.

You return from a normal weekend away.

Shirts.

Shorts.

Underwear.

Socks.

Swimwear.

Sleepwear.

Laundry everywhere.

Then you return from a naturist weekend.

Towels.

Mostly towels.

So many towels.

Naturists may not have defeated laundry entirely.

They've simply transferred the textile economy from clothing to absorbent rectangles.

Still, progress is progress.

Packing Gets Weird Too

Packing for a normal vacation:

Daytime clothes.

Dinner clothes.

Swimsuits.

Shoes.

Backup shoes.

Underwear.

Socks.

Sleepwear.

Something nice.

Something casual.

Something in case it's cold.

Something in case it's hot.

Packing for a naturist resort:

Sunscreen.

Towels.

Flip-flops.

Maybe a hat.

Some clothes for places where civilization continues insisting upon them.

Done.

You stare at the suitcase.

There's empty space.

This feels suspicious.

Surely you've forgotten something.

You haven't.

You've simply discovered that the human body is remarkably easy to pack.

Weather Becomes Your New Dress Code

Once clothing is optional, fashion loses some influence.

Meteorology takes over.

What's the temperature?

Wind speed?

Cloud cover?

Humidity?

Is the pool heated?

Suddenly the weather app has become your wardrobe consultant.

Seventy-eight and sunny?

Excellent.

Sixty-two with a breeze?

Fine. Naturism has been temporarily defeated by physics.

Even dedicated nudists eventually concede that hypothermia is not a fashion statement.

Cold Weather Restores Respect for Pants

Naturism can make clothing seem unnecessary.

January can correct this misunderstanding immediately.

There is nothing philosophical about being cold.

At some temperature, everyone rediscovers textiles.

Sweatshirt.

Pants.

Socks.

Blanket.

Possibly all simultaneously.

And that's an important point.

Naturism isn't necessarily anti-clothing.

Clothing is useful.

Sometimes extremely useful.

Protection.

Warmth.

Work.

Safety.

Weather.

Public health and hygiene.

Certain restaurants with particularly strict opinions.

The difference is that naturists may stop seeing clothing as automatically necessary simply because humans are present.

Clothes Become Tools Instead of Requirements

Maybe that's the deeper shift.

A jacket has a purpose.

It keeps you warm.

Shoes have a purpose.

They protect your feet.

Work clothes protect your body.

Formal clothing communicates respect in certain settings.

But clothing simply because a body must always be covered?

Naturism asks you to reconsider that assumption.

Clothing becomes something you use rather than something you automatically are required to wear.

And once you've experienced that distinction, it's difficult to unnotice.

Then You See Someone Wearing Jeans at the Resort

There is always someone.

It's 86 degrees.

Sunny.

Beautiful pool.

Everyone relaxed.

Then somebody walks past wearing jeans.

Actual denim.

Your brain reacts with genuine confusion.

Aren't they hot?

Look how quickly the tables turned.

A few months ago you wondered how anyone could possibly feel comfortable naked around strangers.

Now you're concerned about the person wearing pants.

Naturism has successfully rearranged your operating system.

The Weirdest Part Is Reentering the Textile World

Eventually you leave the resort.

Gas station.

Restaurant.

Grocery store.

Suddenly everyone is dressed.

Of course they are.

That's normal.

But for a brief moment, you notice it.

Not judgmentally.

It's simply visually obvious.

Clothes everywhere.

Different colors.

Logos.

Brands.

Styles.

Uniforms.

Shoes.

Belts.

Layers.

After spending a weekend without most of that information, the textile world suddenly looks remarkably...

textile.

Then your brain adjusts again.

Because humans are good at that.

You Don't Become Anti-Clothing

This isn't a declaration of war against pants.

Clothes can be wonderful.

Fashion can be creative.

A perfectly fitting shirt feels great.

A comfortable hoodie on a cold morning is practically a minor miracle.

Shoes save our feet from countless terrible decisions.

Naturism doesn't require hating clothing.

It simply gives you something most people rarely experience:

A genuine comparison.

You've experienced being dressed because it's necessary.

And being undressed because clothing isn't necessary.

Once you've experienced both, clothing becomes a choice in environments where choice is possible.

That's When Clothes Start Feeling Weird

The funniest thing about becoming comfortable with naturism isn't that nudity starts feeling normal.

Everyone expects that eventually.

It's what happens on the other side.

The waistband you never noticed becomes noticeable.

The swimsuit you never questioned becomes unnecessary.

The shoes you wore automatically become something you're eager to kick off.

The closet looks larger.

Packing becomes easier.

Laundry becomes slightly less tyrannical.

And putting on clothes after a long nude weekend starts feeling strangely ceremonial.

Underwear.

Shorts.

Shirt.

Socks.

Shoes.

Layer after layer.

You look in the mirror.

Fully dressed.

Ready to return to civilization.

And somewhere in the back of your mind appears a thought you never expected to have:

This is the weird part now.

Not bad.

Not wrong.

Just strangely noticeable.

Because once you've learned what it feels like to wear nothing...

you finally realize how much it feels like to wear something.