When someone jokes about being naked, they’re rarely talking about skin.
They’re talking about exposure—the risk of being seen too honestly.
We laugh because it’s easier than saying I’m scared.
Humor becomes a towel we wrap around insecurity.
We tease the truth just enough to make it tolerable.
It’s a survival instinct: if you laugh first, no one can use it against you.
But laughter doesn’t mean we’re unbothered—it means we’re brave in disguise.
Each joke is a nervous handshake with honesty,
a way of saying, please see me, but not all at once.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe laughter is how vulnerability sneaks past our pride and reminds us we’re still soft underneath.