I twisted my ankle last weekend. It’s not broken, but it is fat and purple, ugly and mangled like Nicole Richie’s face. I wish I had a good story about how it happened — something about tripping over a basket of muffins I baked for the Collegetown homeless while attempting to save a lost hippie child from some Long Islander’s SUV — but the sad truth is, I only have myself and Stella to blame. Stella Artois, that is. One second I was going to give my friend Susie a particularly graceless-yet-enthusiastic hug, and the next second I was falling face-first onto the ground.

People keep scolding me: Jackie, you’re a senior now. Quit acting like a freshman. Don’t you know any better? I tell them I do know better, that I’ve learned a lot of things from my past three years at Cornell, but nobody believes me. One rough night at Dunbar’s and my credibility is shot.

If only I had Doc Brown’s DeLorean. I would take it back to the fall of 2003 when I first entered Cornell as a wide-eyed-yet-wise-assed little freshman. I think the elder Jackie would have a lot of wisdom to impart on the baby Jackie, twisted ankle and all. The conversation would probably go something like this:

Senior Jackie: Hey, you — freshman me. I’m here from the future to save you from three years of easily-avoidable uncomfortable moments and stupid mistakes. So you better listen up to what I have to tell you.

Freshman Jackie: Yeah, right. You’re not me. I would never wear Seven jeans. I may be from Long Island, but I’m no JAP. And how did you break into this hell-hole otherwise known as Balch, anyway? Are you one of those weirdos from the third floor?

SJ: First of all, stop using the phrase “JAP” immediately. 95 percent of your classmates won’t know that a JAP is a Prada-toting, Gucci-wearing Jewish American Princess, most often hailing from Long Island towns like Roslyn or Great Neck. They’ll think you’re using a racial epithet against the Japanese.

FJ: Hmm, I did notice that girl from Buffalo give me a weird look ...

SJ: And second, stop putting down Balch. Yeah, I know you didn’t want to be here, that you requested a double in one of the co-ed dorms. Well, here’s a news flash: nobody actually requests Balch. Don’t worry — in about three weeks, when your “lucky” Dickson friend who got mashed into an undersized triple starts complaining about her one roommate’s digestive problems and about how her other ho-bag roommate keeps bringing different guys home each night, you can be smug about your spacious Balch single, equipped with personal sink room and all.

FJ: But —

SJ: No buts! Now get out of your room and start making friends! The awkward-but-allowable window of opportunity for random introductions closes before you know it. You don’t want to find yourself reading rented Womyn’s Center books alone in the Carol Tatkon Center, do you?

FJ: No … but they’re all from Upstate New York! And they have weird majors! I mean ... “Hotel Management”?? And what the hell is a “Human Development” major, anyway?

SJ: Hey, don’t be one of those stuck-up pre-meds who looks down on everyone else just because you’re taking general Biology. Wooooo. So are like 900 other kids, you little jerk. The number one thing to remember is that Cornell is all about diversity. From farmer’s kids to city kids, you’re going to come across a lot of different people studying a lot of different things. Take advantage, ask questions. These are the best chances you’re ever going to get. If what you wanted was to matriculate with 8,000 socially-misfitted, argyle-clad clones, you should have applied to Harvard.

FJ: Yeah, I suppose. Maybe I’ll get lunch with that 6’ Southern chick I met yesterday. Any other advice?

SJ: Yeah. Go back to your natural hair color; you aren’t fooling anybody but yourself. And while you’re at it, you might also want to get a gym membership, fatty.

FJ: Hey! That’s not nice! Who do you think you are, anyway — my mother?!

SJ: No. I’m the one who had to ellipticize those 1:00 a.m. Bear Nasties mozzarella sticks off your thighs at Teagle four times a week sophomore year. Your formerly-fat-future-self is telling you: throw away the late-night menus from Gepetto’s Pizza.

FJ: Okay, okay. I get the point.

SJ: One last thing ...

FJ: Yeah?

SJ: Don’t call back that frat-hole you met at that party. You’ll thank me later — I promise.

I like to think that, given the opportunity, the Senior Jackie would have made a lasting impression on the Freshman Jackie — that a lot of awkwardness and all around unpleasantness could have been avoided by following some simple advice. I would have cautioned her early on not to become “that kid” in any of her classes — that kid who e-mails the professor with “interesting links” immediately after the first day of class and has to be the one douche to ask a question just as the professor is about to let everyone out. Or, more importantly, I would have warned her that when she did come across “that kid,” as we all invariably do, it would be unwise to cough “shut-the-hell-up” under her breath and have the little sycophant hate her for the rest of the semester. But, most of all, I would have reminded her to take her time and enjoy every second, because you only get to be a freshman once.

As for the Senior Jackie and my unsympathetic critics, mocking me in my one-legged, semi-crippled state for “not knowing better” and “acting like a freshman” — well, I don’t really care what they say. I have learned a thing or two in the last three years, even if they don’t believe me. Because whether you’re a Senior or a Freshman, nobody knows everything — there is always more to learn. And we all slip up sometimes.

Or down, as the case may be.