The Naked Truth About Forty Years

There are certain things a husband should never surprise his wife with after forty years of marriage. A new hairstyle is risky. Buying furniture without consulting her is dangerous. Bringing home a puppy without warning can result in sleeping on the couch. But accidentally booking your fortieth anniversary getaway at a nudist retreat is probably somewhere near the top of the list, right alongside announcing that you’ve invited your mother to stay for the summer.

Harold had honestly been trying to do something nice. Forty years with the same woman deserved more than a card from the drugstore and dinner at the local steakhouse. He found what looked like a beautiful couples’ retreat surrounded by trees, with hiking trails, a spa, massages, swimming, good food and plenty of peace and quiet. He also noticed that the weekday rates were considerably cheaper than the weekend rates, because romance is apparently more enjoyable when you can save $137.50.

The problem was one little word. Harold had read naturalist. The retreat meant naturist. He discovered the difference about thirty seconds after they arrived.

The first person they encountered was a perfectly pleasant gentleman carrying a towel and absolutely nothing else. Harold stared for half a second too long, then immediately developed a fascinating interest in a nearby flower bed.

Margaret leaned towards him.

“Harold.“

“Yes?“

“Why is that man naked?“

“I don’t know.“

“You booked this place.“

“I‘m starting to see that.“

Then another couple walked past, also completely naked, chatting away as casually as two people picking up milk at the grocery store. That was when Margaret began laughing. Not a polite little chuckle, either. The kind of laughter that comes from realizing your husband has just spent three weeks planning a romantic anniversary surprise and has somehow managed to remove clothing from the itinerary without actually intending to.

“Oh, this is priceless,” she said.

Harold wasn’t nearly as amused.

The receptionist welcomed them warmly and explained the rules. Nudity was expected in most common areas, although towels were required for sitting, and everyone was expected to respect personal boundaries. There was no staring, no unwanted touching and no photographing other guests.

Harold nodded solemnly.

“Good rules.“

Margaret looked at him.

“You need rules?“

“I’ve been married forty years. I know when to keep my mouth shut.“

The first afternoon was an education in human behaviour. Harold had expected something vaguely scandalous, perhaps people behaving like teenagers who had discovered a bottle of wine and a locked bedroom. Instead, everyone was remarkably ordinary. They were naked while reading books, drinking coffee, playing cards, swimming and arguing about whose turn it was to put the kettle on.

And yet, ordinary did not mean completely comfortable.

Walking around without clothes sounded liberating until Harold actually had to do it. He discovered that a towel is a wonderful invention and that certain parts of the male anatomy become considerably more noticeable when there is nothing left to distract the eye. He also discovered that old men are not necessarily built for public nudity. Gravity, age and several decades of enjoying second helpings had clearly been conspiring behind his back.

Margaret, on the other hand, seemed to be adjusting rather well.

Harold noticed.

“You seem pretty comfortable.“

“I’m trying to relax.“

“You’ve been talking to that woman for twenty minutes.“

“We’re discussing the hiking trail.“

“You’re naked.”

“So is she.“

“That’s not the point.“

Margaret grinned.

“What’s the point?“

Harold decided forty years of marriage had taught him when he was standing on dangerous ground.

Later, they went to the pool. Margaret slipped into the water without hesitation, while Harold stood at the edge clutching his towel as though it were the last surviving branch of civilization.

“Are you coming?“

“I might.“

“Harold.“

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?“

“Whether my dignity is waterproof.“

She laughed and splashed him.

Eventually, he joined her.

Something unexpected happened. Once the embarrassment wore off, the nudity became almost secondary. There was something strangely freeing about being around people who had stopped worrying about looking perfect. Nobody had a beach body. Nobody looked twenty-five. There were wrinkles, scars, sagging bits, stretch marks and bodies that had clearly enjoyed several decades of good meals.

In other words, there were people.

Real people.

That evening, sitting together under the stars, Margaret leaned against Harold and smiled.

“Forty years,” she said. “And I never thought we’d end up here.“

“Neither did I.”

She kissed him on the cheek.

“Still glad you married me?“

Harold looked at her, then glanced around at the naked strangers wandering peacefully through the grounds.

“Absolutely.”

He paused.

“But next year, I’m booking somewhere with clothes.”

Margaret laughed.

“Why?“

“Because after forty years, I don’t need another anniversary surprise involving your husband seeing more naked people than he saw in the first thirty-nine years combined.“

They both laughed.

And perhaps that was the best anniversary gift of all.

Marriage isn’t about having a perfect plan. It is about being willing to laugh when the plan goes spectacularly wrong, discovering that embarrassment doesn’t last forever, and learning to accept people, including yourself, exactly as they are.

Harold went looking for a romantic retreat and accidentally found something better: a reminder that none of us gets through forty years without a few wrinkles, a few surprises, a little baggage and a lot of stories.

Although next time, Margaret suggested they check the website together.

Apparently, there are some things a man should never leave to autocorrect.