There's something I never thought I'd say. I got starkers with three strangers. Their names were Caryn, Georgia and Claire, and they were generous enough to initiate me into the world of just hanging out in the nicky noo nah. It was scary and weird and exhilarating and strangely an anti-climax all in one, but let me go back a step to explain.

I host a breakfast radio show in Melbourne and, inspired by a similar event in London, for one night we hosted a naked restaurant for our listeners. It wasn't sleazy or salacious or in any way sexy. I mean, even Chris Hemsworth wouldn't look his best hoeing into a plate of ribs.

Instead it was an exercise in complete body acceptance. In shaming the body shamers. We are bombarded with nude imagery from the perfect people - selfie-addicted models and Kardashians and fitspo gurus - all in the name of feeling confident and beautiful and proud. So, why shouldn't the curvy and floppy and bumpy and hairy and stretched have the right to show everybody just how much they love themselves sick, too?

While I couldn't bring myself to join our restaurant full of listeners, I was drawn to the notion that, through the shared vulnerability of getting our gear off, I might find self-acceptance.

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So there I was, in a small windowless office at work, politely chatting to three women of varying ages, about everything other than the fact that we were naked!

It felt as if the four of us had gone completely mad and forgotten to wear clothes, but had stopped for afternoon tea on the way to the nuthouse.

I have never felt comfortable with my body. I'm conscious of my cellulite, and have pasty skin and a butt like a half-deflated airbag.

I hate wearing bathers on the beach, and the older I get, the less inclined I am to share my naked body with my husband. I sleep in an oversized T-shirt now. I fear by the time we're 70 he'll be feeling his way through flannelette pyjamas worn over an iron lung.

So while I don't agree with the many people who suggested getting my gear off was brave (probably not as brave as firefighters or the defence force or preschool teachers), I was seriously freaking out. Should I wax? How should I stand? Will they look at my bits? What if I accidentally stare at their bits? Are my bits even normal?

But once I got past the initial out-of-body experience that struck when our robes hit the floor, I felt a magical transformation. I'm not going to tear off my clothes at every chance - I feel the cold way too much. But my perspective has changed. When you remove sexual activity and everyone is in the same goosebumpy boat, bodies lose their meaning. They're as remarkable as a cushion with hair.

Also, it is possible to be aware of my own body, to be in it, without any reference to another's gaze - even if that gaze comes from my own unrealistic standard. I realised I spend most of my time with my head in someone else's point of view - an imagined, highly critical audience made up of past partners, beauty editors, gym instructors and innocent beach-goers, all created by my own ridiculous expectations.

After my morning in the buff, I'm calling BS on "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". Going naked with three strangers showed me that beauty is entirely mine to own.

Frankly, the beholder can get stuffed. I'm a confident, unashamed, strong and healthy, cellulite-riddled, caesarean-scarred, saggy-boobed glory. And I'm having a giant piece of chocolate cake to celebrate. Because who the hell cares? My body is beautiful!

Jo Stanley is a comedian, actor, writer and co-host of Jo and Lehmo on @gold1043.