I’m almost 50 & strip naked for strangers – my kids call me gross & embarrassing but I love my wobbly bits

PALMS sweating, heart hammering, I slowly peeled off my clothes in the toilet cubicle.

Outside, 12 strangers were waiting for me to pose for them in the nude — despite the fact I hadn’t even worn a bikini in public for 15 years.

“What if I’m making a terrible mistake?” I panicked.

Shaking and completely starkers, I gingerly stepped into the centre of the room where the life-drawing class was taking place.

It was like one of those anxiety dreams where you’re in the supermarket and you realise you’ve forgotten to put your clothes on. Except this was real.

With the artists — nine men and three women of varying ages — all positioned behind their easels and waiting for me to get set, it was too late to back out.

How had I come to this? After all, I was a sensible mum in a long-term relationship, on the brink of turning 50.

I’m not a natural exhibitionist, or super-confident about the way I look. Far from it.

I’ve never gone topless on a beach — even before I had children — preferring tan lines to letting it all hang out.

Confidence-bashing ads

Like so many women of my generation, I’d always been self-critical when it came to my appearance.

Whether it was the pressure to lose weight or to look younger and sexier, the underlying message was that we are only as good as the way we look.

And it wasn’t just confidence-bashing TV and magazine ads telling us that.

An ex-boyfriend once informed me only tall girls could be beautiful — but I’m 5ft 3.5in. Another random bloke said I didn’t have the legs to wear a short skirt.

I wish I’d told them to stuff their stupid views up their chauvinistic backsides. But their words stuck with me.

Thirty years and three kids later, my body is definitely showing signs of wear and tear.

But the older I get, the less I care what people think.

I’ve come to terms with the fact I’ll never have the so-called perfect body — and so what? I don’t need corrective creams or plastic surgery, just body positivity.

With my half-century on the horizon — an age when women were once rendered invisible — it felt empowering to see stars such as Davina McCall and Kate Beckinsale looking sexy and confident in mid-life.

Presenter Amanda Holden, 52, even posed semi-naked for a portrait she gave to her husband Chris.

That’s why, when I saw an advert asking for life models for an art class in June, I thought, “Why not?”.

I’d never done anything like it before, but it felt like a chance to embrace my body and step outside my comfort zone.

The ad called for models of “all shapes, sizes and ages”. The only catch? I’d have to pose in the nude.

Undeterred, I got in touch and signed up.

My three kids — aged 16, 13 and ten — weren’t quite so convinced.

They were horrified at the idea of me posing in the buff, telling me it was “weird”, “gross” and “embarrassing”.

One even asked if I was planning on getting a wax first. I’ll admit that I was.

As a mum, I want my children to realise that our bodies are nothing to be ashamed of — regardless of size, shape or age.

If they only ever see “perfect” physiques, like on Love Island or in filtered images on social media, they will grow up thinking there’s only one way to look. And women will continue to feel judged and inadequate.

The art class took place near to where I live in North Devon — but not too close, as the last thing I wanted was to bump into somebody I recognised.

I was not given much advice before-hand — just time and location, and that there would be a couch and a bean bag to lie on if needed.

When I emerged from the toilet in my robe, I had an overwhelming desire to just run away.

First, I was instructed to hold a series of short poses for a minute each, followed by three-minute ones then 20 minutes.

I could do whatever I wanted and quickly learned that even the simplest position gets uncomfortable quite quickly.

After a break, I lay down for an hour-long final pose, trying to zone out by focusing on the music they were playing.

It was so surreal, lying there completely exposed, listening to the scratch of pencils.

But as the minutes slowly ticked by, I realised none of the artists were judging me.

I didn’t feel objectified or sexualised. They didn’t care what I looked like ­— I was simply a collection of limbs and contours for them to draw.

I could just as easily have been a grapefruit or a pair of slippers.

It was quite liberating. Instead of trying to cover up my wobbly bits, I just had to let it all hang out.

And although I felt vulnerable, I also felt empowered.

It was like I was standing there saying, “This is me”.

Of course it was nerve-racking, but I felt so proud that I went through with it.

I also loved the adrenaline rush that the fear gave me — like travelling solo for the first time or jumping into the sea.

That adolescent high is increasingly rare as you get older and new experiences that excite and terrify you in equal measure are replaced by boring worries over mortgage payments.

When the two-hour class was over, I got dressed and the artists showed me their work.

I’d been dreading seeing myself on paper, but to my surprise I loved their portraits.

I didn’t mind that they’d captured my stretch marks, saggy boobs and baggy stomach. These things are just reminders of having babies and getting older — both of which are a privilege.

I took some pictures and sent them to my sister, then showed my two daughters when I got home.

They were impressed with how realistic they were, even if they found the whole thing mortifying.

My 16-year-old son wouldn’t even take a look — but then again he feels awkward even if he comes into a room when I am half- naked.

I can’t prevent my body from changing. I’m just grateful that I’m still healthy.

My younger self would never have imagined becoming a life model.

But I have no regrets. Not only has it helped me to accept my body, it’s taught me that you’re never too old to push your boundaries and take on new challenges.

What’s more, for two hours’ work, I was paid £40. Not bad for simply stripping off and standing still.

I may not be typical model material, but I don’t need anyone else’s approval.

I can finally say I’m positive in my own skin.

In fact, I’ve already signed up for my next life-modelling class.

Additional reporting: Alex Lloyd