me, paraphrased: I really have become the Wife of Bath. I've been afraid of that since eigth grade.

Actually, in the eighth grade or so, when I first read Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, I admired the Wife of Bath, with her love of travel, her frank happy style, and her many loves.

I wanted to be "full bolde," and fair I already was, although I could have passed on being "reed" of face. I wanted to know remedies of love, and be full of earthy reminisce. I was quiet, terrified night and day, afraid of attracting attention, afraid of being alone, afraid of telling secrets, afraid of deserving whatever would come next. I wanted escape. I wanted to be someone who had survived, and could live with gusto, clashing colors and open mouth and all.

Now, I am surely gap-toothed, including the implications. I wear bright colors, though perhaps not red hosen. I'm three husbands short of the Wife, but I imagine I've made that up in other relationships not sanctioned "at the church door." But most importantly, although sometimes on reflection I wish I were better at refraining from telling my friends whatever I think, I have found my voice.

Now if I could just adjust the volume a bit more.