Today, for no reason in particular, I was thinking about the movie The Blue Lagoon. You know, the one with a teen age Brook shields and the curly blond headed kid whose name I never really learned.
I first saw the movie when I was smack dab in the middle of my adolescent sexual development. Not the kind girls are going through these days, this is the catholic school girl 1988 version, I was pretty naive then, and romance, the slow, involved, Jane Austen sort of romance had me day dreaming of falling relentlessly, endlessly, roses and chocolate-ly into love. So a movie like The Blue Lagoon, had me enthralled. The two young beautiful people who rolled around in the sand making out, frolicking and fishing. Falling into their hut on a bed of fresh palm leaves….
Well, flash forward to married adult me. I started thinking of The Blue Lagoon. And I started to think, if I ended up in my own private Island paradise, with my husband, without bills, worries, clothes, would it really become an all encompassing romantic paradise romp? Sure, for a few days, it might have some elements of sexy sexy.
But really think about this for a moment. First things first, no mixed drinks. No strawberry daiquiris, no margaritas on the rocks, no Bahama mama’s. Can paradise really be paradise without blended ice concoctions?
My second thought: Sand.
Lots and lots of sand.
It’s what has me questioning the lonely island paradise experience.
How the hell could you get romantic with all that sand in the crack of your ass? In your thatched hut?
I recall summer trips to the beach when I was a kid, the cooler that was sealed tight the whole time, inevitably produced a peanut butter and jelly sandwich laden with sand in every creamy bite. I am still convinced peanut butter and jelly attract sand like a strong magnet, just in the movement from baggie to wet-wiped hands.
Okay, remember this scene: Brooke Shields is lying in her little diaper underwear get up, her ample hair puritanically covering her breasts, and the blond guy whose name I never can remember, gets papaya juice on her skin and licks it off.
Did I mention sand yet?
I just don’t know how sexy spitting sand every few seconds is.
And if there are no bills or money to fight about, what would Mars and Venus turn to instead?
Fishing. I’m sure there will be two different, proper, ways of how to fish and catch dinner. After the first set of sharpened spears are thrown down with a loving declaration of ‘fine, figure it out your damn self’. We all know that we would be surviving on fruit and fruit that us women find in the near by jungle; turning to our gathering ancestry ideals. That is until the specifics of reef fishing are fully figured out.
After the romance wears off, arguments about tracking sand into a cleanly laid bed of palm leaves would probably cause some building of another bed under the stars rather than in the rickety hut.
So the point, do I have to have one?
Not really, I mostly have thoughts, but how about this: sometimes, romance in the sand is better imagined or watched in an air conditioned theater with popcorn, a diet coke, and flush toilets near by.