Why do I tan? Let me count the ways.
Only, I won’t know the answer ‘till the end, so I can’t give a number just yet. Obviously, I’m hoping it’s at least enough to fill out a column, but given the way pen follows meandering mind, slappin’ black on white has never been a problem for me.
First and foremost, I tan because you can do it drinking beer, which for me at least is the common denominator to just about any occasion of quality time.
I tan because I can do it lying down, unlike horseshoes, which, though ranking way up there among the laid-back arts, still requires you to move.
I tan because I can say I’m doing something with my time. I’m catchin’ rays.
I tan because Zonker Harris is one radical dude and I’d love to hang with him on the bodaciously bountiful shores of Walden Pond. As it is, I meet Zonker in spirit out on the sun-drenched lawn, even though I could never hope to lay down his Olympic bronze.
I tan because the Old Man tanned, and that’s good enough for me.
Not some pansy-ant, manicured George Hamilton style, all ban de soleil for the St. Tropez tan -- rather a working-class brown. Ninety percent of the sun that falls on my skin, catches me on the move.
I tan because I can do it standing up, pushing a wheelbarrow, driving a nail, mowing grass, cutting firewood or tossing rocks in Savage River. A sweaty sheen is the best suntain lotion.
I tan because, with a few notable exceptions like Marilyn Monroe and Nicole Kidman, humans look better tan than pale, as brown skin speaks from the depth of our gene pool to summer harvest, skinny dippin’ and good, clean lovin’.
I tan because Prof. Mary likes me in stripes.
I tan because I’m going to the beach in two weeks and need a base, which I’m late getting to with the disturbing lack of global warming we’ve had in the mountains of late.
I tan because I can do it tossing Frisbee with the kids, or playing Trac Ball, which is almost every bit as cool, and thanks to eBay, available straight from the ‘80s, $17 for a two-racket set.
I tan because, although I know it’s bad for me, it’s also good for me, as spirit is wed to body, and its condition must be considered as well.
Singing of an evening and a drink he christened Grapefruit Juicy Fruit, Bard Buffett timelessly declares: “Drive-in, guzzle gin, commit a little mortal sin, it’s good for the soul.”
So is a good tan.
Someday soon, with the evaporation of the ozone layer, the insurance man may ask us if we tan, and charge a premium for coverage, or turn his back altogether, as the industry does to those who smoke.
Were that the case, adding fiscal consideration to a wholly legitimate health concern, I might possibly put up the SPF 4  for good. But like much else that ails the world we’ve helped create, that’ll likely be a burden for our heirs to shoulder.
I tan because I can. Two of the Progeny Three got the gift, but my middle Abzullah, like two of my four sibs, has to be slathered in 35, and still gets pink. If I had a fastball, I’d pitch. I have skin that somewhat pigments, I tan.
In so declaring, I do not diminish or dismiss the horror of melanoma. However,  the disease is already mine in a sense, for I could wake up tomorrow, like everybody else who draws breath, and find myself in its grip.
I tan because the doctor’s never ordered otherwise. Should that day come, it will be an easy call to draw the shades. In the meantime, risk is inherent in the first step beyond the front door, and it is mine as a free man to weigh.
Besides, what Willie Nelson notes of old drunks and old doctors, holds true as well for old tanners.
And finally, at this the 14th raison d’bronze, I tan because Savage River Reservoir affords an altar to rival any beach or bed, sunlight that spent eight minutes crossing 93 million miles, dancing on sacred waters that convey canoe-bound spirit bowing flesh and blood to the light of life. And love…