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Originally published August 7, 2002.
I took a seat in the living room and quickly noted that all the chairs were draped with towels. It’s an etiquette thing. At Maple Glen Campground, virtually every surface on which you could potentially put your butt is protected by clean terrycloth. Willy and Sue went over the other rules — no pointing, no photographs — while a couple of casseroles cooked up in the oven.
You’ve heard about Naked Lunch. Well, I was just about to experience Naked Breakfast. It seemed only polite to dress, er, undress the part. Resolved, I headed for the bathroom to strip. The only way to experience the unique democracy of nudism, I reasoned, was to join the body politic.
It was not as easy as I imagined. Despite years of skinny-dipping and lounging naked around the house, I had to coax myself into taking it all o . The rain and the Mozart didn’t help, but a little sign in the bathroom urged me on: Instead of “Home Sweet Home,” it ordered, “Go braless. It pulls the wrinkles from your face.”
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