My Parents Are Nudists, And I Am The Weird One
A twenty‑year‑old home from college discovers her parents now make smoothies, vacuum, and fold laundry fully nude, and wonders if wanting pants in the kitchen makes her a prude.
By Crystal_20
Hi. I am twenty years old. I am home from college for summer break. I go to a small school in Michigan where I wear sweaters in August because the library is freezing. I love clothes. I love layers. I love the armor of a good jacket. I am not a nudist. I am not even nudist-adjacent. I am the person who changes in the bathroom stall at the gym.
My parents have apparently become nudists while I was away.
I do not mean they sleep naked. I have made peace with the vague sounds of love and linen I pretended not to hear as a child. I mean they are walking around the house fully nude at eleven in the morning like it is a resort. Dad makes coffee with his balls out. Mom folds laundry topless. I came downstairs for cereal last Tuesday, and there was my father at the kitchen island, reading the paper, wearing nothing but reading glasses. I screamed. He said, “What? You have seen it before.” I HAVE NOT SEEN IT BEFORE. Not in the daylight. Not while I am trying to eat Cheerios.
I cannot bring anyone over. My boyfriend thinks I am hiding a drug problem because I refuse to let him pick me up at the house. My best friend Elena is sitting on my bed right now reading this over my shoulder. She keeps saying, “I have seen bodies. I will bring wine. Let me come over.” I keep saying no because I know her. She will look. She will make eye contact with my dad’s penis, and then she will look at me, and I will die of shame.
They were not like this when I lived here. I would remember. I have trauma enough from catching them in the hot tub when I was twelve, but at least back then they had the decency to be drunk and apologetic. Now they are sober and evangelical. Mom said, “We discovered our true selves after you left for school. We feel so free.” I said, “I feel so trapped.” She offered me herbal tea and a pamphlet.
I am counting the days until I can sublet a room with three strangers and a bathroom that smells like ramen. I would rather live with a philosophy major who plays didgeridoo at 2 am than spend one more morning watching my father make a smoothie in the nude. He uses the Vitamix. It is loud. It is aggressive. There is spinach flying everywhere. And his penis is just there, swinging in the breeze of a kitchen appliance I used to respect.
I love my parents. They are kind people. They pay my tuition. But I cannot look them in the eye because I keep accidentally looking three inches lower. I need someone to tell me I am not a prude. I need someone to tell me it is okay to want boundaries in my own home. I need someone to tell me this is a phase and they will put on robes by August.
Please help me. My name is Crystal. I am twenty. I am fully dressed in a locked bedroom, and I can hear my mother vacuuming. Naked. The Dyson does not deserve this.
Elena, stop laughing. I can hear you.
New entries in the Naked Voices thread go up every Tuesday and Friday. Read along in order to follow the whole conversation.
