Baring Your Soul...: ...and Your Body

I should probably tell you right now that I didn't mean to start writing a book while naked. It just sort of happened-like getting a parking ticket while trying to save a stray kitten or accidentally sending your therapist a sext (I MEANT TO SAY "I'm feeling emotionally raw," not "I'm feeling hot and raw").

It was a Tuesday. That weird kind of Tuesday that smells like someone else's armpit and existential dread. My dryer had exploded in a fit of rage and lint, I was out of clean underwear, and I had just finished crying into a bowl of leftover tater tots like a sexy, unhinged raccoon. And in that sacred moment of rock-bottom glory, with my left tit dangerously close to a cooling Totino's Pizza Roll, I thought: "You know what? Screw it. Let's write a book."

Not just any book. A book about being naked. And I don't just mean the kind of naked where you're like, "Oops, I forgot my towel again" and you're flashing the Amazon guy who's now visibly trying not to make eye contact with your areola. I mean soul-naked. Raw chicken feelings. The kind of vulnerable that makes you sweat in weird places and contemplate texting your ex just so someone will witness your descent.

Now, I know what you're thinking.

"Jazmyn, what exactly qualifies you to write about baring your soul and/or body?"

To that I say: 1) I once got drunk at a family reunion and gave a TED Talk about my childhood trauma using marshmallows and interpretive dance. 2) I've been emotionally naked since 1992. 3) I've been physically naked in more places than I care to admit, including-but not limited to-a Waffle House bathroom, the back of a Subaru, and a Renaissance fair where I thought the robe was part of the costume, but it was actually someone's sleeping bag.

This book is not a self-help guide, although you might feel mildly helped against your will. It's not a memoir either, because that implies dignity and chronological order. It's more like if your favorite wine aunt did mushrooms with Brené Brown and then FaceTimed you while sitting in a kiddie pool full of glitter and bad decisions.

I want to talk about the body stuff-the jiggly bits, the stuff we tuck into Spanx, the rogue chin hairs that sprout during full moons like hormonal werewolves. I want to talk about the soul stuff-the shame, the joy, the time I got dumped via Post-it note, and why I still occasionally spiral into a puddle of sadness when I hear the first four notes of a Norah Jones song.

But mostly, I want to do it all with you. Fully clothed, metaphorically naked, emotionally flailing, and possibly covered in snacks.

So grab a snack, lose your pants (figuratively or literally-I'm not the boss of you), and let's get so real it makes both your nipples perk up and your inner child panic.

Welcome to Beautifully Naked.

Hope you brought a towel.