There was a time when I got my hair cut regularly and my nails manicured to perfection.
There was a time when my clothes didn’t consist of yoga pants, ball caps and vintage cotton T shirts.
And there was a time when my underwear matched on top and bottom. And was lacy. And didn’t come from Target during a mad rush before school lets out.
My breasts used to be perky and I could go without the kind of underwire that is designed to hold up the Golden Gate Bridge.
I wore bikinis with wild abandon, purchased off the rack with no thought as to whether or not it would fit because, of course, it would fit.
My body was taut and lithe, muscular and fit. And my abdominal muscles were not hidden behind a wall of C-section scarring, extra pounds from stealing chicken nuggets off toddler plates, and the dreaded FUPA.
That time is not now.
In fact, if I’m being honest, that time was much longer ago than I’d care to admit.
I used to be “good naked.”
Not so much.
And yet, my husband still wants to have sex with me regularly.
He says it’s because he still thinks I’m hot and attractive and that I don’t look all that much different from when we first met.
We both know he’s lying.
One look at the road map of stretch marks across my thighs or the angry red C-section scar on my lower abdomen proves he’s a lying liar pants.
But regardless of the baby weight I gained 15 years ago and the hips that have softened into the curves that held my babies, he still takes me gently into his arms, raises his eyebrow and says “You wanna?” just as much, if not more, than he did when we were young lovers just getting to know each other’s bodies.
He’s able to look beyond my “bad naked” self and see the real me.
We’ve reached the point in our relationship where lovemaking is more about the deep emotional connection that comes with years of exploring each other.
While yes, years ago, my underwear drawer looked like an advertisement for Victoria’s Secret, I’ve long since realized that those complicated get-ups merely wind up on the floor when you get to the good part.
And these days, my yoga pants wind up on the floor in much the same way.
Candlelit evenings that lead to hours of time together in the bedroom have slowly given way to furtive, quick interludes where getting down to business means timing naptime just right or putting the kids to bed a little earlier.
Though the circumstances of getting it on have changed and our bodies are no longer “good naked,” the end result is the same. We are still having sex, even if we are starting to look like an an old fart married couple complete with marshmallow abs and receding hairlines.
This is not to say that we’ve let our bodies go or that we don’t try to spice things up for each other now and again. We both exercise and do what we can to stall the inevitability that gravity brings to an aging body, but, let’s face it: his abs are long gone and my tits are gonna be at my knees in a few years.
But that’s okay.
Because we are “bad naked” together, a “bad naked” team, if you will.
And it’s liberating AF.
And ‘bad naked’ doesn’t mean we hate our bodies, and lack self-confidence, it means we can acknowledge and embrace the changes with a little humor.
Not having to feel self-conscious when I’m retaining more water than the Hoover Dam proves to be quite an aphrodisiac. I did not see that coming (pun intended).
I have found that in accepting that our bodies have changed over time, it has led to a more honest sexual dialogue. I enjoy sex so much more rooted in the knowledge that I have a partner who accepts me, leaky breastfeeding boobs and all.
I have found a partner who has seen what I look like when I deliver children and still wants a piece of my dimpled, sun-starved ass.
I have found a partner who has seen me struggle to subdue my mom-sized funbags into, and out of, a sports bra and still looks at me with desire.
I have found a partner who has seen me in post-partum mesh underwear with engorged boobs the size of cantaloupes and he still whispers, “Hey, sexy,” when I walk into a room.
So, yes, our “good naked” bodies are a thing of the foregone past.
“Bad naked” is our new norm these days.
And, I’ve been delighted to discover that it’s the best kind of naked.