I was raised in a physical family. Happy, sad, or angry my life has always been a tactile one. I grew up channeling this into sports and theater, not very well I might add. I am known among my circle of friends as the hitter, especially if I’ve imbibed. People put up with it because they like my personality and because I assume that everything else about be is fairly up to snuff. This is just a quirk that must be tolerated in order to get to the good stuff. However, in my junior year I found rugby. A sport that relishes in the clash of bodies, broken bones, and a bit of blood. In my first season I hurt my hips, I my second I was hospitalized for a lower leg injury. I was punched in the face, thrown to the ground, and bruised and bloody on the regular. And I loved it. There is only one thing more satisfying than showing off an injury from a good hit. And that is telling all your friends how you elbowed a girl twice your size so hard in the throat that she cried. Actually it’s probably the look on their faces after you tell them with such gusto that really does it. My history definately factors in here, as in noted earlier. On a proximal level I hit when I am hit. Developementally I am of an age where I feel the need to seek out a social group that meets my needs. And functionally speaking, I have an evolutionary drive to engage in physical activity, which probably stems from an increased fight response as opposed to flight. Frankly I enjoy the roughness and rugby facilitates that. It is simply a place where it is finally ok to hit.