I’ll fess up. I lied.

Last year, I fooled you all with my column “No Country for Old Women.” I told you all I was a grandma, that I was notoriously old-fashioned and was totally out of the loop of teenage experiences (which I would argue is still true). I then proceeded to write about my antics — about how I was bluntly introduced to Facebook stalking, how I repented for my sins of unspirited-ness with scratches from cutting chicken wire at quad decs, how I was quite literally slapped in the face by Abercrombian depravity (You have no idea how hard I cheered when I heard 150 of their stores would be closing by 2015; I almost cried tears of joy), how I was insulted by the grandma-unfriendliness of even the most prehistoric models of the iPod Touch, how I suffered from auditory annihilation at rallies, how I was scarred by a twenty story tall poster of David Beckham in nothing but his briefs in the most homely and senior-friendly little town of New York City, how I lamented the loss of purity in the world after seeing everyone freak at Sadies, and how I found myself in the middle of a half-naked fountain hopping mob at Stanford. And you — students, teachers, and my most avid fans (my friends’ parents who admired my strict adherence to morals) — laughed and believed me without a second thought.

But the real truth is that I wasn’t officially a grandma then. I didnít become a full-fledged grandma until August 20, 2012, as the clock struck 8:30 (I love my free first!) and that obnoxious bell made me jump in my seat in Madame Finckís AP French class.

“I am now a senior citizen,” I squealed. Inside my head, of course, because not only would that extremely idiosyncratic statement fetch me the stares of the 41 other students in the classroom, but it would also fetch me two more glaring eyes for speaking English in class. (Excusez-moi, Madame!)

And so as I walked out the door, I realized, as any reasonable senior citizen should, that Ponce de León was an idiot. Instead of running around to find a fountain of youth or a time machine to take me back to freshman year, I intend to go out with a bang. And no, I’m not talking about my agenda to score 5s on every single AP test I take next year, or my illustrious campaign to get accepted into HYPSMC (Harvard Yale Princeton Stanford MIT Caltech).

Talking to a dear friend of mine who has transcended the mortal life of high school to go to Berkeley (and who you might know from last year’s “TwoCast” vlog as having eighteen cats) has proved to me that regrets about missing out on things during senior year are real. In her case, it was her not getting a senior portrait, not going to Challenge Day, and not going to Sadies. I was about to offer my humble opinion on the Sadies part of the deal but decided not to.

As much as I detest the notion of wearing fancy shmancy gowns and dresses, for all I know, down the road, I might end up crying myself to sleep each night because I studied for a Calculus test in Mr. DeRuiter’s class rather than going to Junior Prom. Highly unlikely, but you never know.

That is why this year, I have a bucket list. It’s filled with things that are deemed socially mandatory for senior citizens and high school denizens in general. While I canít promise you that I’m going to ditch on Senior Ditch Day, I intend to put myself out there, whether it be in a dress or in a cheerleading outfit (although I would positively loathe that).

This grandma shall have no regrets.

Have something in mind that yours truly absolutely, positively needs to do before her days as a senior citizen come to a close? Post your bucket list suggestions on El Estoque’s Facebook page, tweet them to @elestoque on Twitter, or send them to me at [email protected]. And if all these hi-tech, social media thingamabobs are too much for you, drop by A111 to convey them to me by word of mouth.