And in the naked light I saw: Nudity, shame and celebrity

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I have never, ever enjoyed being naked. Not as a child, and certainly not as an adult. I did not grow up in a naked house. My parents were firm believers in sheathing our naked bits in layers of clothing, preferably made from wool. I don't walk around my house naked. I don't go to sleep naked. I don't wash the dishes, or so any sort of housework, naked. I don't soak for hours in the tub or read books naked in front of my fireplace or go to nudist beaches. And I cannot relate to those inane magazine spreads featuring naked models just lounging around, looking simultaneously bored and glamorous. Those are the worst.

So you can imagine my confusion when I, chronic avoider of nakedness, gave birth to three children who adore nothing more than being au natural. My children are the nudist version of Hansel and Gretel, shedding clothes around the house the moment they arrive home from school. They strut from room to room, bare stomachs jutting out in front of them, without a care in the world. Warm, rainy weather brings not the opportunity to huddle inside watching cartoons, but the chance to scamper outside in rainboots and their birthday suits. Their bodies are an endless source of fascination, and their lumps, smells and sounds are debated with the same intensity as the Nurenburg trials.

As far as my children are concerned, clothes are confining, itchy, suffocating instruments of torment better left to uptight adults like myself. Clothes squeeze their necks and leave marks on their skin. Clothes make them sweaty. No matter what they're made from, clothes will never feel as good as being naked does.

The other day I came across the following quote from Carey Mulligan, the pixie-like actress from An Education (one of my favorite movies):

"I tend to clamp up on camera, but this meant working with no inhibitions. I mean, I don't wear a bikini on the beach. I walk around my house in pyjamas. I haven't seen myself naked in the mirror for probably a decade. I'm very prudish."

I like to think that actresses spend hours starring at their naked reflections in the mirror, transfixed by their own glistening perfection. They pay obscene sums to personal trainers and get spray-tanned and spend long, luxurious hours under the strong hands of a masseuse at an exotic spa somewhere in Bali. It's challenging for me to wrap my head around the concept that tiny framed Carey Mulligan, she of the pixie cut and poreless skin, purposely avoids seeing her nude self. I wonder if her prudishness is a cover for body insecurity. I wonder if she feels ashamed with how she looks. And I wonder if she always has. Did she wander around naked as a child and stomp around nude in the rain? Did she shed her clothes like a snake slithering from its skin after a day at school? Did her body ever fascinate and entertain, rather than admonish and scold?

I wonder if I will ever be comfortable being naked. Perhaps I'm just not a naked person. But it would be nice not to avert my eyes when faced with my own nude reflection. Claiming my nakedness would reaffirm my commitment towards self-acceptance, flaws and all. It would help destroy those irrational thoughts of having to be being perfect or looking as I "should."  It would force me to examine who I am without my protective layers of wool and cotton, cable knit and denim. And it would bring me closer to the pure delight of living in my body and embracing what it is to be me.

Now I ask you: How comfortable are you with being naked? Do you enjoy spending time in the nude when you're at home? Does your naked body make you feel self-conscious, whether you're alone or with a significant other? Has being naked ever interfered between intimate moments with your spouse or boyfriend?