There are quite a few things on the 161 things list that are age specific. By the time I started taking the list seriously at the beginning of this year, it was too late to do several of them. Luckily, my picky eating habits and a refusal to trek to the dining hall in the snow kept me from doing #107: Gain the freshman 15, pay $300 for a gym membership and don’t go. I did, however, manage to gain the junior going abroad 15, so I guess that evened itself out. #9: Take Psych 101 may as well be off limits by the time you get to senior year. 10 a.m. Friday class? Completely incompatible with my rampant senioritis.

Other things you have to wait until you’re an upperclassman to accomplish, like #127: Get Tapped for a secret society (missed the boat on that one) or #27: Attend hotelie prom. Last weekend, I decided to try one of these senior-only tasks — #101: Go to a frat party as a senior; convince yourself you were never one of them.

The night started out painlessly enough. My roommates and I agreed to go to the open party of a fraternity we have friends in, stop in, say hi for a bit, and peace. We obviously weren’t dressing up for the theme, and I didn’t even bother to change out of the leggings and t-shirt I’d been wearing all day.

We debated whether or not we should drive to the party so that we could make a quick exit, but most of us were in no state to operate a moving vehicle — we settled on taking a cab. But the summer after freshman year, I had drunkenly dialed University Taxi from New York City, asking for a cab from the Upper West Side to North Campus, please. Since then, I’ve claimed that I can’t call a taxi because my number is flagged — I then make someone else make the call. This night in Ithaca was no exception, so one of my roommates dialed the dispatcher, and we went downstairs to wait for our cab. We waited, and waited, called back and were told that the taxi would be there in five minutes, waited some more, called again, and waited. Eventually, my one sober roommate agreed to drive (Thanks! You’re the best!), and we were finally on our way.

Expecting to be let in immediately, we marched straight to the front of the snaking line of freshmen. The brother at the door had other ideas; he suggested that one of my roommates and her visiting boyfriend — an alumnus of the house — go in immediately, while the other three of us wait outside. We ended up waiting about 25 seconds before walking in. Still, it’s the principle of the thing.

Clearly, once you are no longer a freshman girl, you are no longer a particularly desirable guest at a party. Disgusting.

The IFC-provided bouncer wasn’t exactly welcoming either. Upon discovering that I had left my Cornell ID at home, he recommended that I be kept out of the party. When he saw me get in anyway, he looked me up and down and said “Okay. Your call,” as if I was some sort of frat party terrorist. For the three people that read this column and don’t personally know me, I’m the least threatening-looking 5’3” girl on the planet.

After seeing the hordes of sweaty freshmen inside, we tried to escape upstairs, but the scene there was no better. We were part of a huge, sticky, claustrophobic, underage mess. Freshman year, I would have considered this an excellent party.

I was trying to get into the spirit of things and have fun, when someone dropped a shot into my hair. I remembered why I hadn’t been to one of these things since sophomore year and was all too happy to leave a few minutes later.

I tried to convince myself that I was never one of the annoying, clumsy slash rude freshmen at the party. (Seriously … if you spill a drink on a girl, apologize!)

Three years ago, though, I would have been thrilled if I were lucky enough to get upstairs and have my hair covered in alcohol.