My family may not be a model of harmony, but it enjoys complete transparency and openness on certain matters that are taboo in probably 95% of couples.
One of those matters is my husband’s taste in women.
Maybe because he sees me as his closest friend, he feels obliged to share with me his observations on the attractiveness levels of every lady in our circle. Like it or not, he keeps me informed about who’s attractive, and precisely which physical attributes make her so.
Don’t go thinking these studies of his are for pleasure. No, they’re laying the foundations of a serious scientific work that reveals the secret of the holy of holies – the Female Libido. Known also as “The Yotov Formula”, it is a function of two key parameters of female appearance – the subjects of Emo’s many years of observation – namely: hair colour and bra cup size. Without further ado, let me introduce you to it directly:
Libido = Bra Size x Hair Colour, or in other words:
L=BS x HC
For easier illustration, I’m also attaching a graph:
THE YOTOV FORMULA
My role as confidante and chronicler of Emcho’s observations and scientific works was imposed on me from day one of our relationship (OK, fine, I appointed myself chronicler). But probably because that’s how I was brought up from a young age, I take it as something normal. Even after subjecting it to critical analysis, I still see nothing wrong with your husband telling you, “That girl’s hot.”
What counts as a “hot girl” is another matter. Back in the day, our definitions diverged completely. I dare say I’ve contributed to cultivating my husband’s taste, since at first, in 2006, “we” were mainly impressed by girls with bleached, straggly crimped extensions and eyebrows plucked into a look of permanent surprise. On the whole, Emcho found everyone attractive, as long as they had peroxide extensions and slim legs. To these more widespread criteria he added one of his own – nobody, but nobody, could get through his otherwise rather wide-meshed sieve if she had SHORT ARMS.
This strange requirement of his was non-negotiable. It wasn’t even open to comment. I’ll never forget one morning, back in the distant year of 2009, when we were watching the weather forecast presented by a very beautiful weather girl. Or very beautiful by my standards. When I shared my observations with Emo, I got a red card.
“How can you like her? Look at those short little arms – when she points at Sofia, she can’t even reach it.” The presenter was broadcast against the map of Bulgaria and stood, roughly speaking, “on the seaside”. At that moment she was informing us that spring temperatures were expected in Sofia tomorrow, stretching out her arm towards the capital by way of illustration. True, her arm, fully extended, didn’t even reach Plovdiv. But she still didn’t deserve the comments of Emo, who was getting ready for work. As he walked away, I caught fading, fragmentary phrases, among them “little arms like a Tyrannosaurus rex”.
I, for my part, was raised from the earliest age by my mother, the highly esteemed Mrs Rosi Dimitrova, on the most important sacrament in the world. Namely – how important it is NOT TO BE SHORT-LEGGED. Regardless of your gender. Genetic diseases aside, short legs are the worst thing the genetic lottery can deal you. So as not to leave even the faintest shadow of doubt that you might bring this curse upon your offspring, you must run from the short-legged as from lepers.
Analysing the two fetishes in our family – long arms and long legs – I realise that one basic family-wide requirement for attractiveness can be derived, and that is LONG LIMBS. If Oscar Wilde wrote “The Importance of Being Earnest” as a sketch of the failings of Victorian society, our family would write “The Importance of Being Long-Limbed” as a sketch of the physical failings on which “we” make no compromises.
But enough preludes, enough science and formulas. Let’s get back to the actual occasion for this story.
Quite a few years ago now, Emo discovered 5kmrun. After he’d taken part a few times, he talked me into trying it too. Of course, alongside the briefing on how great running is, I also received a bulletin on which female runners had caught his eye. There were several, but his attention gravitated around one in particular – Krisi Bergova, to whom this blog is dedicated. She was described to me as “a little blonde” who, back then, had outrun him on the home straight at 5kmrun.
When he pointed her out to me, I approved. The basic requirement of the “Yotov Family Almanac of Attractiveness” – long limbs – was present. Besides, the long blonde hair was real – my many years of methodical work teaching Emcho to tell extensions from real hair had begun to pay off.
I’m proud of the image of the broad-minded wife that I’ve cultivated. In keeping with it, I decided to start greeting the girl who had made an impression on Emo. To show her how big-hearted I am.
All in all, my message, as much to her as to the world, was:
Let my husband fancy all sorts of women; there will always be attractive women. I’m so confident in myself that it doesn’t bother me.
Besides the Saturday runs, I’d started going to the Sunday XL races too. Krisi Bergova ran at all of them, and I launched my campaign of greeting her. Since we had never been introduced, I started more delicately – with greetings by gesture and facial expression. A nod here, a smile there. But none of them was honoured with a response from Krisi.
In retrospect, I realise she simply didn’t know who I was. I was only just getting into running and hardly knew anyone yet, and back then absolutely nobody knew me. I knew her from Emo’s stories. I’m 100% sure he had neglected to bother Krisi with the topic of how hot his wife is. So she had no way of knowing I existed. In her eyes, I must have been just some strange woman who kept stubbornly smiling and winking at her as they ran past each other.
But each of us thinks the world revolves around us and that everyone is obliged to recognise His Excellency. You could say that, however hard I try to be self-aware, I’m no exception. After several fruitless attempts to get a greeting back from Krisi Bergova, I, indignant, convened a family meeting. There was one single item on its agenda:
“Emil, that ‘little friend’ of yours may be long-legged, but she’s STUCK-UP. How hard can it be to return someone’s greeting?”
Emo, of course, wouldn’t be Emo if he didn’t pour oil on the fire.
“Funny, she seems very friendly to me. She always says hello to me, the girl, and we chat a lot.”
“Well yes, but not to me. And we don’t chat.”
“The problem is you, Niyka. You just hate pretty women because you’re jealous of them!”
Emo, having solved yet another problem I’d created for myself, waved his hand wearily. He can’t be bothered with me; the diagnosis is clear. If there were a pill that cured zlobicus feminilicus, or female spite in plain English, Emo would have written me a prescription for it. But no such thing existed.
Emo didn’t hear out my protest, which contained a long list of attractive women I like. Not only like, but am very close friends with. As far as he’s concerned, my case is closed.
And so a few months pass, during which nothing in the communication between me and Bergova changes, except that I myself have stopped greeting her and have started pointedly ignoring her.
The first climax of this story took place at a very, very muddy run somewhere around Lyulin Mountain or Bonsovi Polyani. As usual, there were 3 distances, all on a course with swampy elements. Emo and I had signed up for the short distance. When I finished, Emo still wasn’t there. I have outrun him on occasion, but when, another 20-odd minutes later, he still hadn’t materialised at the finish, I started wondering where he was.
“Knowing Emo,” chipped in Nakov, who’d also run the short one, “he’s probably ‘got lost’. He’s mixed up the short distance with the medium one so he’d have an excuse to run alone with Bergova. She’s running the medium.”
(Sashe, I’d really love to write a blog without you in it; I don’t know how you managed to flutter in and make yourself comfortable here too.)
“Oh come on, not even Emil can be that cheeky.”
“Think again.” I followed Sashe’s index finger, pointing at the finish arch, where at that very moment Emo and Krisi were finishing together as a set. On top of that, they were engaged in what looked, from the outside, like a rather interesting conversation.
Without even having heard what they were talking about, I was already certain it would be something scandalous.
How did I know? Because I know my husband as well as if I’d given birth to him.
I’m familiar with Emo’s behavioural patterns. One of them is that, when talking to blonde, long-legged women, he’s very keen to entertain them. In such cases he allows no pauses in the dialogue. His rule is:
“I say the first thing that flits through my mind – it’ll still be a more elegant option than allowing an awkward silence between me and the lady.”
If you don’t believe me, ask Karolina Kalibatseva. The first time she came round to our place, when we barely knew each other, she too was entertained by her host, Emo. In her case she had to sit through a detailed briefing on the prostitute-trafficking routes passing through Bulgarian territory. And every time I tried to change the subject, Emo imperiously shushed me.
But believe me, once I found out what the conversation between Emo and Krisi at that race had been, I’d have swapped my medal from it for a cosy, pleasant topic like the priestesses of love.
Because Emo, straining every effort to entertain Krisi along the course, had decided to discuss the first subject that came to mind, namely – his wife’s lack of love for Krisi. But don’t worry, Emo had sorted everything out. You’ll find out how in a moment.
My husband was beaming at me:
“Niyka, I’ve got wonderful news for you! Krisi Bergova doesn’t hate you!”
Emo’s whole demeanour sparkled with the message: “Don’t thank me – that’s what we’re together for; you can always count on me to sort out the messes you get yourself tangled up in every day.”
“Tell me, how did the question of hating even come up???” – my head was starting to spin a little.
“Well, while we were running, I asked her, ‘Why do you and Nia hate each other so much?’”
“I see...” – the dizziness got worse and I had to sit down on a heap of muddy earth.
“But Krisi’s really sweet, you know. She said she doesn’t even hate you.”
“Even though you explained to her how I hate her?” Emo didn’t catch the irony in my question and nodded at me.
“Yes, yes, everything’s fine, don’t worry. Only you hate her – she doesn’t hate you. I asked her several times to make sure.”
Right. At least we’ve established that.
Emo, in the role of the dove of peace, flew off somewhere. Probably to do more good deeds and reconcile another pair of feuding female runners.
What was left for me to do, friends? What would you have done in my place?
I decided to go and apologise to the girl. However little I care what others think of me, I can picture exactly what I’d have thought if I’d been in Krisi’s shoes. I promised myself I’d find her at the next 5kmrun and apologise. I wasn’t sure exactly what for, but I felt it was the right thing to do.
This happened in the summer, and somehow, probably because of holidays and trips to the seaside, Krisi and I never crossed paths at 5kmrun. Months went by, and I judged that so much time had passed since the incident with Emo’s peace mediation between the two of us that the apology must have lapsed under the statute of limitations. At the same time, though, I resumed my campaign of smiles and winks as we passed each other at races.
Bergova, probably resigned to the total lack of any logic or consistency in the endless palette of mixed signals she received from the Yotov family at every opportunity, had meanwhile started returning my greetings.
Then came the second climax of this thrilling saga. It happened at the Christmas Run of the Trail Series, held on the Health Trail in Bankya. The Christmas Run detail is important, because at it all participants have to run in Christmas costumes. I’d bought a Santa hat from Jumbo, but I’d lost it on the go, giving it my all somewhere along the course.
When it was time for the awards ceremony, announcing my name over the microphone, the organiser, Iliyan, said he wouldn’t let me onto the podium until I’d restored the Christmas element of my outfit. My hat with its little bell was irretrievably lost somewhere in the depths of the course.
And at that moment, help came from the most unexpected place – Krisi Bergova.
“If you like, I can lend you some horns?” – with a smile she handed me her headband with plush reindeer antlers.
One of my great weaknesses in life is a sense of humour. People who have a sense of humour automatically subscribe to my affections. At that moment I appreciated the wicked sense of humour Krisi Bergova had shown. Emo is no longer her only fan in our family.
I’m publishing this blog, as they say, due to popular demand. I couldn’t fail to respond to the many requests from various people to write it after I posted a teaser for it in one of my posts a month ago. Besides, my fingers were itching. Naturally, before publishing it, I sent it to Krisi for approval. She remembers the events in a completely different way. She’s been living her own life, without the slightest suspicion of what a hot topic she was in our family.
And oh, the dramas, the deliberations and the analyses that raged in my head! In how many situations have I acted irrationally, and how many emotions have I burnt for nothing at all in my life?
