My mother asked in a recent email if the husband and/or I had made a bucket list. She said that it was too late for her to make one, but she thought we should. While I do have a mental list of places I would like to visit, I would not call it a "bucket list." That term has actually always bothered me. Preparing a list of things to do or see before one kicks the bucket stresses how finite one's existence really is. Crossing items off the list (and there is now even a website where one can post their list, cross items off, and post video of oneself doing things) seems as if you're counting down to the day and time that the last item is crossed off the list and then you answer the door to see a figure in a cloak carrying a scythe. I am compulsive enough that I write out a list of things to do each day the night before. The next morning, I fold the list and put it in my right pants or skirt (on those rare occasions when I wear one) or jacket pocket, not to look at it again except in its folded state as I chuck it into the garbage can at day's end. If I did prepare a bucket list, I would likely obsess about items I had yet to complete. I would not treat it as I do my daily list, the one never consulted and easily discarded. I have enough things to worry about; I don't need one more.
As for the list of places I would like to visit, the top two are Machu Picchu, an Incan ruin in Peru, and anywhere in Antarctica.