When I was young, a tan was something you sought, treasured and displayed. You laid out on lounge chairs or towels. You slathered on baby oil and basically fried out there. “Did you go to Florida?” high school classmates would ask after spring break.  “No, it was just my back yard,” I’d say, enjoying the surprise on their faces.

This is because I would lay out in all weathers, tilting my face to the sun, from which flowed all strength and goodness (or so it seemed). I liked the way I looked when I was tan; brown was beautiful.

When I was older I went to ocean beaches for my tan. When no shoreline was available (and it usually wasn’t), I settled for towels spread on the well-trod grass of Lincoln Park or the soft tar roof of my Greenwich Village apartment building.

In time, grudgingly, I applied sunscreen. At first, only SPF 8. It was a pride thing. But later I tried the higher numbers. The tans, though reduced, still remained. I couldn’t imagine returning from a week at the beach without having skin that was a different color than the skin I left with.

Not anymore. This year I come back the same. I attribute this not to lack of time on the strand or at the pool — but to lavish use of SPF 50, a UV-protectant shirt I pulled on over my bathing suit and a towel draped over my legs.

I long ago realized that the “healthy glow” was not so healthy. There are wrinkles and age spots and worse.  So I was careful; I heeded the dermatologist’s warnings.

The beach vacation remains, but the tan is history.