How to Find Clothing That Fits When You’re a Nudist

Sep 10

Written By Neville Tulloch Jr.

Or: How to survive pants without betraying your beliefs.

Nudists don’t hate clothes.

We hate the betrayal.

You put on a pair of jeans, and suddenly they’re in a committed relationship with your thighs.

A shirt becomes a straightjacket with buttons.

Socks feel like tiny prisons for your feet.

Meanwhile, your naked body is sitting there thinking, We had a good thing going, and you ruined it for brunch.

But society insists.

Weather insists.

Work insists.

And apparently the burrito place still has a “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy, which feels unnecessarily hostile toward people with a healthy relationship with their own skin.

So, fine.

We’ll wear clothes.

But we are going to do it correctly.

First, accept that clothing is a costume

You are not getting dressed.

You are going undercover as a person who enjoys waistbands.

That changes the entire mission.

You do not need an outfit that transforms your personality, announces your arrival, or makes a statement.

Your statement is:

I would rather be naked, but apparently we have laws.

The goal is to wear something comfortable enough that you stop noticing it.

If you are thinking about your waistband every twelve seconds, the waistband has already won.

Stop trusting the size on the tag

Measure yourself naked.

Finally, a shopping task nudists are unusually qualified for.

Grab a soft measuring tape and get your actual measurements. Chest or bust. Waist. Hips. Inseam. Whatever matters for the clothes you are buying.

Do not suck anything in.

The tape measure does not care about your self-esteem.

Then compare those numbers with the brand’s actual size chart.

Because S, M, L, XL?

Those are astrology for fabric.

You are not a “large.”

You are a specific collection of measurements being forced to negotiate with a clothing company that has apparently invented its own mathematics.

Fabric matters more than you think

If you spend a lot of time naked, you become very aware of what fabric is doing to your skin.

Scratchy?

No.

Stiff?

No.

Feels like somebody wrapped you in a reusable grocery bag?

Absolutely not.

I lean toward soft cotton, linen, modal, Tencel, merino when it is cold, and anything with enough stretch to remember that human beings bend.

Basically, I want fabric that behaves like a polite houseguest.

Stay close.

Do not scratch me.

Do not restrict my breathing.

And please leave when I ask.

Stop buying clothes that fight your body

Here is a revolutionary idea:

Clothes should fit your body. Your body should not have to fit the clothes.

That means I am suspicious of anything marketed as “sculpting,” “shaping,” “compression,” or “slimming.”

I am not clay.

I am a free-range human.

Give me adjustable waistbands.

Give me drawstrings.

Give me loose shirts.

Give me linen pants.

Give me something that understands I might want to sit down later.

Clothing should move when I move.

This should not be controversial.

Build the smallest wardrobe society will allow

I do not understand owning forty-seven versions of something I already resent wearing.

I need enough clothing to survive civilization.

That’s it.

My theoretical nudist wardrobe contains a robe, a sarong, a couple of oversized shirts, comfortable pants, a hoodie, something respectable enough for work, something slightly nicer for occasions where sweatpants might cause an intervention, and shoes I can remove without entering into a long-term commitment with the laces.

A sarong deserves special recognition.

A sarong is basically a towel that went to college.

A kaftan is a socially acceptable tent.

Joggers are formal wear for people who have accepted reality.

And an oversized T-shirt is basically the emotional-support animal of clothing.

Never trust clothes until you move in them

Do not stand perfectly still in front of a mirror and decide something fits.

That is how clothing tricks you.

Move.

Sit down.

Raise your arms.

Bend over.

Squat.

Reach for something.

Walk around.

Perform the full range of activities that a human being may unexpectedly encounter while clothed.

If the shirt immediately leaves your torso when you lift your arms, we have a problem.

If the waistband digs into you when you sit down, we have a problem.

If something twists, scratches, pinches, rides up, slides down, or makes you involuntarily sigh every time you move, send it back.

But if you forget you are wearing it?

Buy another one.

Possibly in black.

Learn the language of online shopping

Online shopping has one enormous advantage.

You can try everything on at home.

No fitting-room lighting.

No tiny room.

No curtain with a four-inch gap designed specifically so a stranger can accidentally make eye contact with you while you are changing.

Just you, your mirror, and the freedom to immediately take everything back off.

Reviews also have their own secret language.

“Runs small” means somebody made this for an ant.

“Relaxed fit” means there is hope.

“Slim fit” means hostility.

“True to size” means absolutely nothing unless somebody first explains whose truth we are discussing.

And free returns?

Sacred.

Dress for the situation, not somebody else’s fantasy

The question is not:

What should someone my age, size, gender, body type, or whatever be wearing?

The question is:

What am I doing, and what will let me do it comfortably?

Going to the store?

Comfortable pants and a shirt.

Work?

Whatever passes the dress code without making you miserable.

Wedding?

Fine. I’ll make an effort.

Winter?

Dress like a burrito with legs.

Airport?

Easy layers, slip-on shoes, and nothing that requires an engineering degree to remove at security.

You are dressing for the situation.

Not auditioning for approval.

And finally, fix your expectations

You are not bad at clothes.

You have simply experienced the alternative.

Once you have spent enough time comfortably naked, certain things become difficult to ignore.

Waistbands are weird.

Tags are ridiculous.

Socks are suspicious.

And the entire concept of spending hundreds of dollars trying to make fabric look effortless feels slightly insane when being naked is literally free.

But clothing is a tool.

Sometimes we need it.

Sometimes it keeps us warm.

Sometimes it keeps us employed.

Sometimes it lets us enter restaurants that apparently remain deeply committed to fabric.

Fine.

I can live with that.

The best clothing for a nudist is not the trendiest, sexiest, most flattering, or most expensive thing in the store.

It is the thing you can wear for six hours without thinking about taking it off every four minutes.

Find that.

Wear it.

Go do whatever society required clothes for.