There’s something I never thought I’d say. I got starkers with three strangers. Their names were Caryn, Georgia and Claire, and they were generous enough to initiate me into the world of just hanging out in the nicky noo nah. It was scary and weird and exhilarating and strangely an anti-climax all in one, but let me go back a step to explain.
After my morning in the buff, I’m calling BS on “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”. Going naked with three strangers showed me that beauty is entirely mine to own.”
I host a breakfast radio show in Melbourne and, inspired by a similar event in London, for one night we hosted a naked restaurant for our listeners. It wasn’t sleazy or salacious or in any way sexy. I mean, even Chris Hemsworth wouldn’t look his best hoeing into a plate of ribs.
Instead it was an exercise in complete body acceptance. In shaming the body shamers. We are bombarded with nude imagery from the perfect people – selfie-addicted models and Kardashians and fitspo gurus – all in the name of feeling confident and beautiful and proud. So, why shouldn’t the curvy and floppy and bumpy and hairy and stretched have the right to show everybody just how much they love themselves sick, too?
While I couldn’t bring myself to join our restaurant full of listeners, I was drawn to the notion that, through the shared vulnerability of getting our gear off, I might find self-acceptance.
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