Within the circle of girlfriends we all look after certain details for each other.

In the '50s and '60s it was telling a friend her slip was showing. By the '70s and '80s it was that if she chose to wear a nearly transparent skirt, use a slip or line the thing. We still let any woman know if she has a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe or that the seat protector got caught in her waistband.

Having crossed the 60 benchmark it's difficult not to think about how different the protective measures may be as time marches on. Preparing a list of requests made of friends, family members and colleagues, things that if most of us realized we were doing would be incredibly embarrassing.

Please, don't ever let me show up in public with stencil-shaped black eyebrows or dots of super pink blush on my cheeks. Force me to get better lighting and new eye glasses.

Should I start spouting conspiracy theories over lunch, do the Heimlich maneuver and tell the waiter I'm choking.

Decide it's time for a face-lift at 75? Find the magnifying mirror and put a thin layer of Vaseline on the glass. It made Golden Age movie stars look good on camera.

Gently let me know there's stuff caught in my dentures.

Have more than two cats in my home? Sign me up for mental health assistance.

If the conversation keeps coming back to my cardiologist, gastroenterologist, gerontologist or some unspeakable medical condition, ask about my ceramics club. It will take a few minutes to figure out I don't have one.

Discover a mountain of old newspapers in the den? Say you're paper training a puppy and need them all. Later time a potluck evening by the cable schedule and tactfully switch the channel to 'Hoarders: Buried Alive.'

Also check for TV shopping addiction. Age can make it hard to determine the difference between want and need.

A red wig 16 inches tall is not the solution to gray hair. Campaign for a hirsute donation to Wichita Theater. And never, ever let my stylist use a blue rinse.

If my nieces give me strings of beads from Mardi Gras, let me know I'm not supposed to wear them.

If you find 30-year old clothes or an Alfred Dunner label in my closet, take me shopping at Neiman-Marcus. Don't need to be dressed like I'm 20, just someone aging with good taste.

Don't let me carry a purse the size of an emergency medical bag.

Friends never let friends wear clothes that smell like mothballs.

Suddenly become interested in a much younger man? Check the bank, credit accounts, make sure the jewelry's in the safe and evaluate any pharmaceuticals prescribed to me at the time. We stopped getting stoned in college.

If the Depends aren't discreet, tell me.

Check to be sure the newspaper is being delivered to the back porch. The sight of me shuffling down the driveway in a housecoat will end up on Facebook.

Should my cooking begin to fail — overcooked, undercooked, wrong ingredients or completely weird stuff, join me in the kitchen and remind me how much you love Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Judith McGinnis, whose column appears here on Thursdays, may be reached at or 940-763-7534.

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