Issue #16: Leaving my comfort zone (and clothes) behind
Issue #16: Leaving my comfort zone (and clothes) behind
If I thought about it too much, I’d turn around and bike away. I quickly pulled off my shirt and shorts.
Happy Friday eve! By the time you read this, I will be (blearily) walking around Berlin. Or maybe crashing in my Airbnb; it all depends on how my plane Ambien hits.🤞Meanwhile, Aliza’s gearing up for The Revivalists show tomorrow night.
Some fun news: free subscribers will now unlock a rundown of the most popular links we’ve shared to date (updated often!), and paid subscribers will get lifetime access to the platonic love shopping guide, an affiliate-free, completely unsponsored 17-page doc of the brands, stores, and hidden gems where we find nearly everything.1
The couple on the sidewalk was definitely filming us. So was the woman sitting outside of Starbucks, her mouth open in shock, and the group of dudes enjoying a round of beers on Stephanie’s patio.
If you bike down Newbury St. in your underwear, you will end up on someone’s Instagram feed.
A few weeks ago, Mike had floated the idea of participating in the annual World Naked Bike Ride. The premise is simple: gather at a meeting point somewhere in downtown Boston, strip down, and ride. As one participant later described it to me, WNBR is “half celebration of bodies, half peaceful protest.”
Because the date felt far-ish away and the plan thus very conceptual, I responded to Mike with enthusiasm.
And then June 24th arrived.
I no longer cancel, even when I really want to. So at 7:30 p.m., I put on modest underwear and clothes I could easily take off and met up with Mike and his girlfriend, Kim. At this point, my enthusiasm for the plan was around 20%. It was a beautiful summer night in Boston — 70 degrees, gentle breeze, honey light — and people were thronging the streets. We would have an audience.
On the bright side, I wouldn’t be cold.
There were about 70 bikers when we arrived at the meeting point in Boston Common, most of them already naked or close to it. A thick scrim of civilians had gathered — watching, pointing, and taking pictures. My heart was now pounding very, very fast.
If I thought about it too much, I’d turn around and bike away. I quickly pulled off my shirt and shorts, trying my best to avoid eye contact with both the naked bikers around me and the clothed gawkers.2
After a quick speech on the purpose and ground rules, we were off, pedaling at “party pace” through downtown Boston.
A youngish naked roller skater glided to my right, an older couple in matching rainbow headbands and nothing else biked ahead of me, and my friends kept pace to my left.
The first two minutes felt supremely weird, like a dream where you go to school in your underwear — but you keep realizing it’s not a dream. Then, startlingly quickly, all of my self-consciousness dropped away. I couldn’t stop laughing, enamored with the physical sensation of the air playing over my body and the swell of camaraderie from traveling in a pack with a hundred naked strangers. As my confidence grew, the ogling became amusing rather than embarrassing.
My friends and I rode with the group for an hour, eventually peeling down a Cambridge side street to put our clothes back on and debrief.
I felt giddy, still giggling, in love with my friends, myself, and the world.
The night wasn’t over: our friend Charles was playing a techno show in the basement of an Elk’s Lodge. We trooped over. The pulsing music and neon lights were an ironic contrast to the lodge’s wall tapestries, faded brown leather, and abundance of wood.
Sam was one of the only people there when we arrived at 9, but by 10:45, the room was filling up. The vibe changed too, bodies becoming looser and the energy rising.
My affection for the world surged again. How did I land here, grooving with these people to this music in this unlikely venue? I wouldn’t have chosen this — I wouldn’t have known to look for it — but I was so glad I did.
A few years ago, Sam and I went to a couple’s therapist. We’d been having the same fight over and over, and resentment and fatigue were starting to cloud the air between us.
In the first session, she wanted to learn about our lives. Maria listened patiently as Sam talked about his burgeoning music career, intramural basketball league, poker hobby, and vast network of friends. My explanation was shorter: I worked a lot, ran or did a Peloton ride every day, read, went out for dinner on the weekends…
“It’s gotten a little lonely lately,” I added. “I’ve been doing less with friends, and Sam’s been out of the apartment pretty often.”
Maria sat back. “So, while Sam is out working on music, or playing basketball, you’re sitting at home watching TV?”
I tensed, immediately feeling the thick threat of tears gathering in my throat. Sam moved a hand to my knee.
“No,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I don’t even like TV.”
This wasn’t true. I did like TV, and not infrequently, I was watching it when Sam was gone. Maria’s question followed me around for days, then weeks. Every time I was in the apartment by myself, I could hear her: You’re sitting at home watching TV? You’re sitting at home? You’re sitting at home?
We’d gone to Maria for help with our perennial fight, but in the process, she’d named something neither Sam nor I had acknowledged: my life wasn’t as full as it used to be. And I wasn’t just lonely — I was bored.
I’ve written about the first change I made to re-expand my life: I stopped canceling. If I had said I would show up, I did. Not only did this help me renew older friendships and begin new ones, it also made me more proactive about making plans — knowing I wouldn’t be scrambling to get out of them when they came around.
But that wasn’t the only change I made. The second was a little looser: I committed to being more open.
My comfort zone had always felt good, but it had shrunk too much. I needed to move beyond its borders before it swallowed me up.
When Aliza first invited me to yoga a year and a half earlier, I was unenthusiastic — I’d always found yoga pretty boring. But I was trying new things.
The morning of the class, she texted me, “Don’t forget water and a towel! It’s hot 🌶.”
My eyebrows shot up. Yoga was one thing; hot yoga was another. It was a warm, sticky summer day, and working out for 90 minutes in a 110-degree room was the last thing I wanted to do, but I’d already said yes.
To my surprise, I loved it. The heat made me languid, oiling the transition from each pose to the next. It was gratifying to see the sweat beading all over my body and pooling on the mat — a physical manifestation of my work. The class ended in a long savasana; I felt my mind still for the first time in days.
“That was amazing!” I said to Aliza as we gathered up our mats and shoes. “When can we do it again?”
I became a hot yoga regular, sometimes going four or five times a week.
The origins of platonic love were similar. When Aliza first proposed the idea of a joint newsletter, I was noncommittal. It sounded like a lot of work, and I was already putting in overtime at my job.
“Not sure I’d be the best partner,” I demurred, “But I’d read whatever you wrote!”
She dropped the idea.
A month or so later, Aliza, Chantal, and I were hanging outside at a brewery. Aliza’s decision to take Jude to New Orleans’ Jazz Fest came up.
“That’s what you should write a newsletter about,” I said. “I think it’d be so interesting and relatable to hear how you’re moving into this next stage of life as a mom while trying to hold on to what you loved about your last stage.”
“Yes!” Aliza said. “Will you write it with me?!”
Buoyed by our collective enthusiasm for the concept, and still shaken by You’re sitting at home?, I agreed.
Several months later, this project has become a highlight of my week. I love the process of writing essays like this one, getting to better know myself and then seeing how those insights and lessons resonate with a group of friends and strangers.
The weekend would’ve looked pretty different a year or so ago: some long walks, lots of reading, maybe a nice restaurant for dinner, and yes, some TV. It would’ve been nice but dull — no surprises.
My decision to be more open wasn’t enough in and of itself. I needed my friends: Mike to propose the naked bike ride, Charles to invite us to the techno show, Aliza to introduce me to hot yoga and gently persuade me to co-write platonic love.
All along, the people around me have held the keys to new places, a life that’s a little bigger and a lot more interesting.
I was shocked at how quickly I felt the discomfort of biking through downtown Boston near-naked melt away, replaced by sheer joy. My comfort zone was back in the Common with my clothes, and I was flying past it.
Bonus Content:
The Science of Breaking Out of Your Comfort Zone (and Why You Should): an interesting psychological deep-dive into why comfort zones feel good.
Yes Man: a man (played by Jim Carrey) challenges himself to say “yes” to everything.
- : turning requests down is important too!
And, ICYMI: the most popular link from Monday’s links we sent our friends was this very helpful guide to what you should bring as a dinner guest by
.
Including an entire section on underwear! Very relevant to today’s essay.
This meant I could basically look at my handlebars or the sky.
A beautifully revealing letter—and not just in the naked-bike-ride sense.
I love this for you! Adios comfort zone. ♥️