I Love You Man

It takes a real man to talk about love

by Dave Smalley, posted on January 25th, 2010 in The Love Issue

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The first thing you need to understand about love is that it’s inherently a tough thing for guys to talk about. Even writing this is tough. Manly men, which I like to think I am, are tough, and if we’re sitting around talking about love…

Wait, that was the old tough guy. The new tough guy realizes that it takes a real man to actually talk about love—because you’re not taking the easy way out – you’re doing something hard. Something tough. It’s actually easier to say nothing than it is to say something, sometimes, especially when it comes to That Word. Guys, just don’t make it sappy. You don’t have to go quoting “Love Story” or pretend that you like “A Walk to Remember.” I mean, there are limits.

Still, it’s a tough balance. But I feel comfortable enough in my masculinity that I can say “I love you” to some folks without fear or hesitation. So here’s a list of things or people I really love: God, Jesus Christ, my family, my country, my friends, my dogs. How do I define the word “love” when I apply it to that group? Those are all people I’d take a bullet for, if need be. Seriously, that’s my definition. Cheery, but true.

Then of course there’s what I call “second-string” love – the looseness that we all use with that word. “I love steak” or “I love your outfit” or “I love that guy” about a movie star or a sports star you’ve never met. That’s not real love—for instance: I can say I love Jack Black, but, funny as he is, I probably wouldn’t take a bullet for him. Although, “School of Rock” makes it a close call – love that movie. See, there it is again.

So here’s a list of things I really, really like, and have often said “I love” but really, “love” being just a super strong “like” rather than the real deal: my guitars, my old pickup truck, my job, punk rock, heavy metal, Southern rock, the Redskins, the Red Sox, shooting cans in my buddy’s field and Mexican food.

I don’t know when I first got to the point of exhibiting some huevos and not being afraid to talk about love. Probably in the most predictable way possible: seeing my children being born. If you’ve been there (for your own kids, I mean—I don’t think there were any bystanders around when my children were born, although I may have been distracted by my wife squeezing my hand until the circulation stopped), then you know what I mean.  If you haven’t, it’s highly recommended. Never have so many clichés been so true as they are about having a family. Heck yeah, my love for those little babies was so strong, I teared up – and, in some sort of sadistic irony, the doctor slapped the babies’ butts, not me across the face for being a wuss – go figure.

I love that guy.

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