After a woman turns 30 in the 21st century, it seems inevitable that she’ll want to write about getting older because, at the end of the day, what else is there to talk about besides inching closer to demise and the sagging of skin flaps? At age 26, I’m still a significant four years away from an itch to discuss motherhood (thank god) followed by periomenopause, as in the vein of Sheila Heti and the Band of Merry Millennial and Gen X Mothers Grappling with Existential Girlbossery.
I often wonder if I’m deliberately obtuse and cynical just to annoy other people, but surprisingly, Miranda July’s bumbling naiveté and jolly imbecile spirit warmed my heart like a cauldron of organic grass soup. Her latest cusp-of-menopause, coming of middle age novel All Fours is a masterclass in wealthy, white artist cretinism.
The semi-successful and humbly famous protagonist is a woman in her mid 40’s with an apathetic husband, a nonbinary child, and an over abundance of spiritual akathisia. After receiving a $20,000 check for a copywriting tagline, the narrator decides to take a solo road trip from LA to New York to usher in the next phase of her life— i.e., gird her loins for what’s next. After packing up her car and kissing her demure, listless family goodbye, she sets off on her journey. She finds herself driving through Monrovia, a beautiful Californian oasis of strip malls and dead pigeons, where she stops to get gas. At the station, she encounters a sexy young man named Davey (yes, like the pirate) who works at the local Hertz branch. Determined to insert herself into his orbit, the narrator sets up camp in the Motel Excelsior, where she decides to spend the entire three weeks she would have been in New York. She spends her $20,000 check on renovating the entire motel room to become a gorgeous replica of a suite at Le Bristol in Paris: sumptuous crushed velvet, plush cream towels, tonka bean body butter, marble topped writing desk. The rest of the novel follows her romance with Davey along with a bevvy of other bodies, weaving between the grasses of nauseating sexual drive and the yearning for connection.
Miranda July is funny. She really is. I seem to be late to the game with that take, but believe me when I say she knows how to seduce a chuckle. A favorite line: The future itself was another lover, reaching backward in time to cup my balls. Instead of dangling in the present I was held, I was safe; I was gently squeezed and aroused by my never-ending preparations.
All Fours is the perfect doomsday novel.