Naked and Afraid...: ...of Folding Laundry

Let me just say it. I would rather run naked through a family reunion hosted by my ex's grandmother than fold a single fitted sheet.

Laundry, for me, is not just a chore. It is a spiritual test. A domestic labyrinth. A weekly reckoning of my questionable life choices. And yes, I do most of it naked. Not because I'm trying to eroticize the process-although once I did get very turned on watching my bra do slow circles in the dryer-but because I'm lazy and chronically hot and, let's face it, pants are for people with their shit together.

I am not one of those people.

I am Kristin. I'm 38, mostly naked, mildly unstable, and absolutely haunted by the pile of clean laundry that's been living on my loveseat for two weeks and now functions as both a cat bed and a cautionary tale. I have started laundry rituals with the purest intentions-saging my laundry basket, playing motivational playlists, even whispering affirmations to my socks-and still ended up crying half-dressed on the floor next to a damp towel that smells like forgotten dreams and coconut body wash.

This book is not about how to do laundry right. There are no folding diagrams. No smug advice about how sorting your delicates can heal your inner child. If you're looking for that, please close this book, go do a charcoal mask, and leave me in peace with my wrinkled pajama shorts and wine-stained camisoles.

No, this book is about what it really feels like to face the never-ending hellspin of adulting while mostly nude and mentally unprepared. It's about trying to conquer Mount Laundry when your soul just wants to lie in the dryer and pretend it's a self-care cocoon. It's about airing your literal and metaphorical dirty laundry-while butt naked and emotionally raw-and laughing your way through the lint-covered madness.

Inside, you'll find my stories, my trauma, my deeply confusing underwear drawer, and the occasional moment of accidental enlightenment. There's also a full chapter about how folding underwear made me question my entire existence. (Spoiler: I still don't fold them. I just wad them into a sacred basket of chaos and pray for the best.)

This isn't about being better. This is about being real. Real sweaty. Real overwhelmed. Real goddamn tired of trying to decide if that pile of laundry is clean, dirty, or just exists in some sad purgatory of "worn once but not gross enough to wash yet."

So welcome to the ride. Take off your clothes, pour yourself a drink, light a candle that smells like lavender and suppressed rage, and let's dive into the raw, ridiculous truth of what happens when you're naked and afraid... of folding laundry.