The skin I’m in is showing signs of neglect. My factory-issued pelt has kept me together so far, but I think I need to spend some time and money to ensure that it remains in one piece.

Naively, I was never one of those smart women who were attentive to the softness or the suppleness of their skin. In addition to their usual mascaras and lipsticks, my airline friends’ travel bags were filled with creams and lotions. I stared at them with curiosity, but not much interest. My skin wasn’t silky, but it kept me all together in one piece. Soothing moisturizers and enriched emollients were not in my budget.

These days, the dermatologist is a routine stop on the annual doctor-visit merry-go-round. Routine maintenance of all of my working parts takes careful scheduling. The doctors for skin, bones, joints. heart, lungs, eyes, bladder, and ears, require a well-planned circuit of appointments. Sometimes they have to fight for space on my calendar.

I visit the Erie skin crew usually once a year. If some malignant invader sets up camp on a shin or shoulder, we meet more often. Recently the doc asked, “Did you sunbathe when you were younger?”

“Well, I was a bit of a beach rat as a teenager and on into my 20’s, when I had a chance.” I did love being beside my Atlantic as often as possible.

After I went to work for American Airlines, I had to be really careful. American had many strict rules about stewardesses’ demeanor. One rule addressed sunburn and other behaviors they deemed “irresponsible,” like parachuting, skiing and motorcycling.

They were straightforward about the sunburn: If you resemble a lobster in uniform, you can’t fly. A healthy-looking, vibrant tan, acquired gradually, was acceptable. I figured out that losing a trip with unpaid sick days would wreak havoc with my checkbook. I never thought of my finances the first time I climbed up to Tar Beach.

Tar Beach was our name for the flat roof of our brick apartment building in New York. From our crowded neighborhood to the real seashore was quite a trek for us newbies without cars. I just really wanted a place to get some sun.

The official roof access was one of those little sheds with a door – at the top of the interior staircase. It was always locked. I knew, because I tried it often. I’m sure our slumlord didn’t want any of us having parties up there. Although we found another way up, it was challenging.

The only vertical route to Tar Beach was via the fire escape. The grated landing at the top was more than three feet below the edge of the roof.

Climbing out our kitchen window, I’d clamber two stories up the black iron fire escape, scorching to the touch, hauling my blanket, towels, books and lotion. At the roof edge, also piping hot, I’d throw my cargo up onto the sandy-textured rooftop. Then, balancing one foot on the iron railing, and looping the hot metal gutter with a towel, I pulled myself up and over.

Barefoot was out of the question. The surface of the large roof was so hot, I didn’t wander far from my arrival point. I spread out two towels, then covered them with a blanket folded in half. The surface was so hot I had to put a few layers between it and me.

Once I was seated it was time for my tanning lotion – yeah that old quick-color lubricant that we all used back then: baby lotion laced with iodine or mercurochrome. The staining properties mixed with the oil were the guarantee of quick color. I basted myself about every 15 minutes, but never made it to an hour. The heat was overwhelming. With the overhead sun and the under-blanket heat radiating up, I was usually medium rare in about 45 minutes.

Getting off the roof was even trickier than the ascent. The time in the sun played havoc with both my vision and my strength, to say nothing of how slippery I was. My afternoons on Tar Beach usually stopped short of American’s sunburn warnings. I only went “up to the dunes” the day after a flight, never a day before.

I learned much later that mercurochrome was banned because of mercury poisoning through the skin. Luckily, when I moved far away, it was to a beachy neighborhood in California and I could finally afford a supply of Coppertone.

Did I sunbathe in my youth? Yes, I had to confess to the dermatologist. And now that she sees me twice a year, we both know it’s too late to lecture me. As blotchy and wrinkled as my hide is now, she also wants me to keep the skin I’m in. I promised her I would not be irresponsible.

I didn’t promise to stay off of fire escapes.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com