My skin may be leathery and worn out, but it has never been more fertile. I’m capable of producing bumper crops of skin cancers undreamt of in my youth.

These garden-variety malignancies grow like topsy over my face and arms. Several have popped up on my back. They start as red spots so faint you think you’re imagining them, then grow brighter and larger until they are blindingly obvious.

None have been life-threatening. When dealt with early, they are a mere trifle.

But for 20 years they’ve kept a-coming, averaging one every year or two. Recently, the tempo has been closer to one every six months.

This is the consequence of a misspent youth. Too many beach parties. Too much surfing. I should have stayed indoors and read books.

Actually, I did read books. My summer tans were anemic. Very likely, I’m being punished for my Anglo-Saxon ancestry.

How does one tell what’s a budding skin cancer and what’s merely an everyday blemish?

That’s a hard one. In the course of daily living, I bump up against things. Bugs takes bites out of me. At any given time, I have a dozen tiny red spots that merit monitoring.

I don’t do a very good job of this. One red spot pretty much looks like another. I lose track. Are you a new blip or one that’s been around since Christmas?

Fortunately, I am married to an amateur dermatologist named Cheryl who has made my epidermis a pet project. She sneaks critical glances when I’m not looking. She finds plenty not to like.

You need to have that thing looked at, she will say. And look. Behind your ear. There’s another one.

I accuse her of over-reacting. These spots likely aren’t cancers, I say. They’re the inevitable blemishes of life. A new-born I am not.

Despite my history of skin cancers, I am comfortable in my aging skin. I accept that nature is having its way with me.

My passivity in the face of epidermal decline irritates Cheryl. Fight back, she says. Modern science has created creams and lotions to help people like me.

It’s all a scam, I say. The beauty industry and Bernie Madoff are kissing cousins.

Cheryl doesn’t believe this for a moment. For if I’m right, she’s wasting a good chunk of her life with skin care rituals.

At least go to a dermatologist, she says. Let a professional decide.

I always drag my feet. Why waste a doctor’s time with aesthetic issues when, if I just wait, I can present a genuine cancer.

I went under the knife in the early spring for a thingie at the base of my neck. My dermatologist was a very pregnant woman about to go on maternity leave, not to return until late summer.

I’ll see you upon your return, I said. Your leave should be enough time for me to hatch another malignancy.

Am I a prognosticator or what? Fourth of July weekend a pimplish eruption occurred on my left forearm. Unlike most of my cancers, this one grabbed my attention at the get-go.

A month went by. Instead of abating, the spot showed every indication of becoming a permanent part of me.

What are you waiting for? Cheryl said.

I’m not waiting, I said. I’m monitoring.

Get thee to the dermatologist, she said.

I relented. Her alarm was catching.

This was a cancer of a type that I had rarely seen before. The excision wound is long, with a curve at one end. The scar will resemble the Nike swoosh.

 Per doctor’s orders, I have my arm wrapped in an ace bandage until the stitches come out. It’s a bulky affair. “What did you do to yourself?” countless people have asked.

It’s nothing, I say. A bit of skin cancer.

Say “cancer” and the smile comes off people’s faces. I try to put it back. I grow skin cancers the way my porch grows mildew, I say. It’s purely a maintenance issue.

Scars are red and angry at first. You think you’re going to look horrific for all time, but eventually the color dulls and you forget that anything happened.

At least I do. Not eagle-eyed Cheryl.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com