Exposed.

The time I took off all my clothes in public.

Yesterday, I got naked with a bunch of strangers. I wasn't swinging at a sex party—orgies aren't my thing. It was simply any given Friday afternoon in Europe.

Thursday my husband and I needed to make a quick pivot and reimagine our holiday weekend plans. I'm in denial that it's already October, so I declared a summer Friday. On short notice, I planned a day date for us to visit a local spa. A good friend had raved about the place. She and her husband went frequently. I had never been opposed to the idea of going. I simply had never made time. Until yesterday.

Now it is important to understand, dear reader, that when I say "spa" I really mean "sauna." In Europe, going to the sauna is an experience all its own—it's a textile-free zone. You strip down, sit next to strangers, and sweat. 

I was excited and amused as my husband and I motored down the autobahn for our adventure. Unsure of what he was getting himself into, Philip was slightly less enthused. Sensing his mild trepidation, I reassured him that whatever went down, we'd leave with a story.

I knew, like most first-time experiences abroad, there'd be aspects of the spa experience I'd bumble my way through. My friend had briefed me as best she could about what to expect. Philip had even Googled "European Sauna Etiquette" before we left the house. Lucky (?) for me, Germans are pretty quick to point out to me whenever I unwittingly cross invisible lines I don’t know exist. I trusted that, eventually, I'd figure out this sauna thing through a combination of astute observation, trial, and error.

The resort was nice but not bougie. It was suprisingly inexpensive. When I arrived, I found myself surrounded by people like me. For most patrons, it was an ordinary day. They were simply taking care of themselves. Spending the afternoon at the sauna was part of their regular routine.

The experience was amazing. I relished in a bit of overdue relaxation and spending few hours of kid-free time with my best friend was great. Most meaningful, though, was the space, silence, and opportunity for self-reflection. 

I’ve moved around world for the whole of my adult life. Each transition has refracted a deeper understanding of my multidimensional cultural identity. At each stop, who I am and what I believe has been held in contrast to something new and different that exists next to me. I've come to appreciate the impossibility of understanding the impact of the small ponds we swim in until we're trying to stay afloat somewhere else entirely. Yesterday afternoon as I sat naked in a hot tub next to a ninety-year-old man, I was a fish out of water, getting schooled in the power of culture once again.

As an American, I'm not used to being with people who let it all hang out. Yes, in the US, we will word vomit and talk about our opinions for days, but when it comes to our clothes—we keep things zipped up. In Europe, nudity is largely a non-issue. Sometimes wearing clothing seems like more of a suggestion than anything else. Sometimes when I walk along a river, I often see pods of people my grandparents age swimming together. Occasionally, one of the old guys will be sport a Speedo, but usually they’re nude. I frequently see naked children running through the streets. It's not rude, dangerous, or improper. Just different. 

My sauna experience reminded me that I'm unaccustomed to being around people who embrace their physical shape. In the cultural milieu I grew up in, people by and large don't celebrate their bodies. They berate, abuse, and pay significant sums of money trying to beat them into submission.

The spa was a stunning picture of physical diversity. It was amazing to see people, young and old, all shapes and sizes, fully settled in their bodies. Their only concerns were soaking in Vitamin D and getting a good sweat. No one paid an iota of attention to me. They were in their bliss. Somehow, they had seemingly been liberated from the tyrrany of shame and self-scrutiny. Or, perhaps, they were never shackled by those chains to begin with. It was beautiful. Healthy. And foreign. Everyone was at home in their skin. As I took it all in I thought, "I wish everyone who has had qualms about buying a bathing suit or felt self-conscious at the beach could see this. I wish everyone could have this, do this, be this." 

If I could, I would wrap up my spa experience and gift it to every female in my life. Most of us could use a good massage, but what we really need is a new message. Women get chewed up and spit out when it comes to cultural mandates about our appearance. Shape, weight, hair color, genitals, skin—inside and out, our bodies seem to be fair game for other people's opinions and decisions. What should be covered, colored, cut, injected, clipped, tucked, or cut? Everybody's got a view. All cultures have mores about how a woman is "supposed" to look. It’s been that way for all of history. It's not one-size-fits-all, though. Beauty standards aren't static. They constantly shift according to time and place. What would castigate me as a harlot in one country or centruy would make me a prude in another. But the damaging, underarching theme that has long coursed through the messages we receive is this: change who you are. It's annoying. And impossible.

Most ideas we hold and ideals we aspire to aren't our own. They're our inheritance. Thankfully, there’s good news: it’s on us to decide whether to keep or reject what we’re taught. We can break rules that don’t serve us and have the power to write new ones.

After yesterday, I’ve decided it would do us all some good to get naked with a group of strangers in a sauna. The world might be a better place if we spent more time side-by-side with people different than us, exposed—in all our imperfection. Underneath the masks we put on, we’re all flawed. Vulnerable. If we had humility and acknowledge this, maybe then we could dare to ask some poignant questions about our unexamined cultural scripts:

• What's Right, what's Wrong, and what's relative?

• Who decides what's proper and polite?

• When am I playing by old rules? 

• Could there be a better way? 

The stories we’ve bought into have a scary amount of power. Many of them have been with us since birth. We have narratives about time, money, education, parenting, work, health—everything. Cultural codes shape attiudes, color feelings, and drive behavior. Some of them help us adapt, others hold us back. What have they done to you?

Strip away pretense.

Look in the mirror.

Don’t be a byproduct of culture.

Create it.

Author’s note:

In the spirit of this essay, I’ll pull back the curtain a bit on my writing process this week. . .

Every once in awhile I’m on the fence about publishing a piece. This post fell into that category. Every time I’ve questioned myself, I’ve erred on the side of courage, taken a risk, and scheduled it to send.

Before stealing away for a couple of hours to the spa yesterday, I tried to finish my writing for the week. Alas, as is often the case, things didn’t go according to plan. I abandoned a half-written a post with a less spicy hook and vowed to come back to it and finish before bed. When I left the house, on some level, I suspected my sauna visit may give me some fodder about the human experience to muse about. Turns out I was right.

But, I still wasn’t sure about writing this. I had no qualms about dropping my robe at the spa, but publishing this felt, for some reason, initially a little scary. Vulnerable. Writing in public always is. It’s like working behind a one-way mirror. I don’t know exactly who’s looking in or how they’re reacting. As I went through a brief decision-making calculus about this post I wondered if it was too evokative. Conventional advice is to picture other people naked if you’re nervous, not the other way around. Then, my senses returned. I laughed and thought, “I’m a shrink for heaven’s sake. Writing about getting naked with strangers is nothing. In therapy, I talk with people about sex all the time. We even talk about money—the most intimate thing of all!” Before I chickened out, I DM’d a friend my spark of an idea. (If you don’t have someone like Heather Boneparth in your life, you should.) I knew if I told her my plan I’d be more likely to follow through. She said, “DO IT!” in the amazing, challenging, encouraging way she always does.

So, here we are.

Mom, I hope you kept reading after I talked about swinging at a sex party and said “orgy.” Sorry(notsorry).

Also, I not-so-secretly hope that when I’m ninety, I’ll have a group of girlfriends who will get naked with me and go swimmming in a river. I hope we laugh, revel in the sunshine, and tell stories while our clothes sit in a pile on the shore. We won’t notice who passes by, nor will we care. Becase we will be free. We will finally understand what matters and whose opinions don’t count.

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