How I Fell in Love With. . . Matthew McConaughey

By: Emily

If fantasy relationships counted toward a real-life tally, I'd be what you'd call, well, a ho-bag. The boys drift in and out of favor with little notice or reason. They wax and wane in my heart with the same frequency that Charlize Theron goes from blonde to brunette and back. But there's one fantasy love to whom I have, and always will, remain true. His name is Matthew McConaughey. And I love him. No, seriously -- I love him.

I know, I know -- I sound like a raving lunatic. But you can put the phone down, there's no need for a restraining order. I know that the Matthew McConaughey I love is a figment of my imagination. I've haphazardly slapped him together like a grade school craft project by pasting little interview snippets and movie trailers into a sticky Matthew decoupage. I get it. Sadly, though, acknowledging this hasn't made a dent in my love. I absolutely, unabashedly adore him. But really, how could I not? He's a rough and tumble Texan with a slow drawl and the face of an old fashioned cowboy. His body is often so heartbreakingly solid that I can imagine him carrying even the most bloated and self-conscious girl over a threshold as other men might carry a sack of green leafy groceries. He seems like the sort of guy you could have a beer with and laugh for hours. I told you, I love him.

It all began with Wooderson, the aging stoner in Dazed & Confused. Then he dazzled as the lovable dupe Abe Lincoln in Boys on the Side. But it was the confluence of two important events that firmly planted Matthew in the soft black earthen mound I call a heart -- a Vanity Fair cover, and the film A Time to Kill. As Jake Brigance in John Grisham's tale of poverty and racism in the modern day South, Matthew was achingly beautiful. He was gritty, and yet smooth. Conscientious, and yet nearly cheated on his wife. He lived in the sort of perfect little backwoods house that I can picture myself spending many happy iced tea drenched years. And, in one famous scene, he took off his shirt. I was done. Signed, sealed, delivered -- hooked. Then, I read the Vanity Fair article. (Oh, boy.) The photos were flawless, and the interview painted him as so down-to-earth that, for a while, I was convinced they'd actually unearthed him like a time capsule from some bygone era. (Surely men that humble and pure only existed in the days of the dust bowl?) They hailed him as "the New Paul Newman," and I was sure they were right.

With the film Contact, my Matthew-love blossomed. I happen to be a total Carl Sagan groupie and passionate about SETI. (Uh-huh, I'm that geeky.) As Palmer Joss he was the ideological theological wunderkind I'd always imagined the book's character to be.

Matthew's roles have since spiraled well into what-was-he-thinking territory. But not even this has abated my love. And, though the magazines are calling others "The New Matthew McConaughey" I have not given up. He's never done anything stupid in real life. He saved puppies after Hurricane Katrina, for crying out loud. He toured the country in an RV to promote a movie. . .and actually slept in it every night. He loves his mama and never fakes an accent. He's a good 'ol boy, and there aren't enough of those in Hollywood, for sure.

What my decoupage Matthew and I have is pure and cannot be sullied, even by films like Sahara. Other fantasy boys may come and go but Matthew is the real (fake) thing. Our love will continue to JK Livin'.