Our instructions were to put a red X on any touch we’d ever received that hurt, and a green checkmark on touches that were nice. I don’t remember the entire scene, but I do recall the teacher’s reaction when she came to my desk.

“Julie…you have a red X on your crotch? Did someone hurt you?” The teacher looked concerned.

“My sister Janet and I got into a fight once and she kicked me in the crotch.”

“Oh, I see. Well, what we’re looking for is something different,” she said, moving onto the next red flag touch. “You have a few red X’s on your bottom. What happened? Did someone touch you there?”

“My sister Janet and I got caught starting fires in the front yard, so dad spanked us. And one time I swore in front of grandma and she spanked me.”

Really, the instructions were too broad, and I seem to remember the same scene repeating itself throughout the classroom. Some of the students had a lot of red X’s, and an amazing memory for every place they’d ever been hit by a sibling.

I tell you all of this for no particular reason, other than it came to mind today as I sat in the chiropractor’s office, looking at four views of a person with the instructions to make note of various pains and their locations. I immediately wanted a red and green crayon and struggled with discerning which pains were important enough to include on the diagrams.

The visit went well.

While waiting in the room, I heard laughter outside. When the chiropractor came in, he commented that they were laughing at something I put in the forms I filled out. I panicked and wondered if I’d left an errant red X somewhere.

“It had to do with your reason for how you broke your wrist a few years ago,” he said with a chuckle, nodding to my chart.

I had put down two simple but true words: stupid horse.

“We’ve learned, here at this office anyway, that there are a lot of stupid horses out there.”

Then, with a snap, crackle, and pop, I felt a bit better. I was also given some exercises I can do next time I’m at the Y, as well as a couple of suggestions on additional weight machines to add to my regular routine so that I strengthen core muscles.

This is because, apparently, I have “sloppy joints.” That is, I’m too flexible.

The chiropractor said that usually, people aren’t flexible enough and tend to strain or tear things by movement. People like me, however, have loose joints that tend to migrate out of place and not find their way back to exactly where they should be because such a broad range of movement is easily possible.

I have a parlor trick I like to show people; it often grosses them out, though in school I’d get requests.

“Hey Julie, do that elbow thing again!” they might say.

Do you want to know if you have “sloppy joints”?

Put your fists on your hips, arms akimbo. Now, keeping your hands in place, touch your elbows together in front of you. Can you do it?

I will never forgive my sister for kicking me in the crotch.

This is amazing, since I do not like dogs.

Let me restate that: I do not like other people’s dogs, but I liked our family’s dogs.

Other people’s dogs are like other people’s kids (except the kids don’t stick their noses in your crotch which, sadly, for some people’s kids would actually be a behavioral improvement) — glad you like them, and glad they’re yours. I’m sure they’re lovely and smart and the bestest ever. Please keep them off of and away from me.

But I like Dug, from the movie Up, and so here he is.

I’ve been noticing a few admissions of guilt over on Facebook on what I think is a growing problem in this country: adults getting into the Halloween candy about a week before Halloween.

About all I’ll admit to is the fact that the “mix” bag I had seems to lack Snickers bars.

In order to allay my growing unease with stealing candy from the babies, I’ve decided to re-categorize it as a “life lesson.” That is, instead of giving away actual candy, I’m considering giving away all of the empty candy wrappers that seem to be breeding on my kitchen counter.

“This, children, is a valuable lesson,” I might say as I toss a few empty wrappers into their buckets. “Life is full of disappointment. Get used to it.”

It’s about the only way I can see redeeming a fairly pointless holiday.

I am reminded that I’ve started thinking in terms of “it wasn’t that way when I was growing up.”

These elementary kids have amazingly foul language. And they are cruel to each other, sounding as if some ridiculous movie dialogue is the script they are using.

Today, as I looked out my window, I saw what had to be a couple of third or fourth grade girls, calling each other “bitch” and talking with that particularly annoying shake of the head while saying things like “look here girlfriend” and a bunch of other meaningless garbage.

I had a Poochie sticker on my glasses when I was a third grader. I know — worlds apart in both time and geographical location and, frankly, neighborhood.

This is an interesting neighborhood.

I also hear the wolves and monkeys from the zoo not too terribly far away, howling and shrieking. It sounds better than these children, and that makes me incredibly sad.