My first impression of Greta was online and purely visual.
I formed it at the Running Community’s Annual Awards for 2019. It was my debut taking part in them. Shame or no shame, I admit that I threw myself into them with the passion of a housewife whose fulfilment comes mainly from Facebook, and whose only chance of real success in life is to be named a finalist in the “Fashion Icon” category.
My friend Sasho Nakov nominated me, and I set about gathering votes in my favour. I won’t lie: thanks to me, in December 2019 the group grew by at least 500 members. Virtual coachloads of my Facebook friends crossed the group’s border under my personal leadership to vote for me in the online election for Fashion Icon.
Back then, unfamiliar with the group’s unwritten rules, I wondered whether these other girls really had so few friends to vote for them, since I was ahead of the next girl, at least in terms of “the love of the people”, by some 80 votes. True, these were all votes from friends and colleagues of my mum, my father-in-law, my mother-in-law and my manicurist. I also talked into voting a few mums from my sons’ nursery whom I hadn’t seen for 7–8 years. They owed me a favour, since I had voted for their offspring’s drawings in IKEA’s online children’s drawing competition.
A tense week followed. I kept checking how the voting was going and whether some new star had risen, towards whom “my” votes might drain away. I was already on the home straight. There were 2 days left until the end of voting and, since a new category had meanwhile been announced in the awards, interest in Fashion Icon had dropped off somewhat. Which was good news for me.
I reckoned I just had to play for time. That’s how I would act if, in some parallel universe, I were a player in the national football team and by some magic we were beating Italy. I’d waste time by every means possible until we scraped through to the referee’s whistle… while praying in the meantime that no really strong player came on.
And so, of course, someone sneakily stabbed me in the back and brought the strong player in question into my category, in the form of Greta. Now, we Sofia runner girls all know each other and there’s nothing we can surprise each other with, least of all with unfamiliar Fashion Icon material. Almost all the Sofia icon candidates are long-legged, long-haired, fair-haired and light-eyed. Fully in tune with the image of female attractiveness created by pop culture.
Greta’s candidacy, even though it was put in at the last minute, immediately caught my attention. Contrary to the commonly accepted stereotype described above, Greta had very short hair, which only emphasised the regular features of her face even more.
I really want to stress my unconditional respect for every woman who has dared to wear her hair short.
I’ve had my hair cut short several times and, even though I really liked how I looked, I never kept it short.
Why? Because on some things I am still very susceptible to male opinion. And on the subject of my short hair, there weren’t two male opinions. I got universal disapproval, such as: “Young girls should have long hair” (that was when I cut it short when I was young) or “Mature women should have long hair, not go around like some auntie” (that was when I cut it short last year).
I’m left with the impression that there simply isn’t a female age suitable for short hair.
Some friends would just look me up and down sadly and murmur in disappointment: “Why????” Only my most loyal fans managed to come up with something optimistic along the lines of: “It’s hair, not a leg. It’ll grow back and you’ll be pretty again.”
The other thing that really struck me about Greta’s looks was that, even though she’s almost my age (only 2 years younger than me) and has had two children, she still hadn’t availed herself of the tricks of modern aesthetic medicine. No lips, no cheekbones, no boobs, she hasn’t even had lash extensions. And she still glows like a dewy apple.
Yes, it takes me exactly a second to look at a woman and know whether all her physical assets are natural. I say this with admiration for all those who have kept everything of theirs real, since, once again, I myself am not among them.
I had to be honest with myself, and I voted for Greta myself.
So there you have it: Greta was nominated for Fashion Icon in 2019 and, unlike me, made it to the final. The overall winner in the category was Karolina, who is also part of my calendar. I wrote a blog about her, the January girl, last month.
And as for the awards in question, I had to suppress my righteous anger at the committee’s decision to exclude me, of all people, from the final. I had to learn the participation rules after the fact (votes from new group members don’t count), and also to take on the most painful thing of all. Namely, to look for a place for personal fulfilment somewhere outside the Running Community’s Annual Awards.
I fast-forward a few years, when Greta, together with me, is already part of the ASICS FrontRunner team. Since the rest of the team are all in Sofia and she lives in Razgrad, she doesn’t take an active part in our get-togethers and events. The first time we saw each other in person was at the team’s annual meeting, which took place in Sofia at the end of June last year.
During the day we took photos, ran and just hung around.
It seemed to me, though, that Greta was keeping a bit reserved, off to the side. And it could hardly have been otherwise, since she didn’t know us yet, while the rest of us on the team spent a large part of our time together.
Based on my memories of the Fashion Icon contest, and not only on them, I had already picked Greta to take part in my calendar, a project I was burning for with my whole being. I had talked her into taking part in the project and had planned to discuss the details on the evening of the Hawaiian party with which we were closing the annual meeting.
The evening came, the party started, but Greti still kept to herself, withdrawn and quiet. I remember how, around 9 pm, I thought how someone’s looks and behaviour can be in complete contradiction. After all, you don’t expect someone who looks like that not to be the life and soul of the party.
But in defiance of all logic, the dancing and merrymaking went on without her.
Towards 11 pm some people started to leave, including my friends Ani and Zornitsa. I pictured my warm little bed and quietly began to long for it.
I had got up very early that morning, and the next day a hard run awaited me. Even if, 25 years ago, there was a time when at 11 pm I would wake up from my compulsory pre-club nap and only then start putting on my make-up, that time has flown away irretrievably.
I started pestering Emo to go home. Emo, a loyal fan of the 90s, who was just throwing his bulk around to “It’s my life” by Dr Alban, flatly rejected my proposal.
“Well, come on then, you stay, and I’ll get a taxi and go home, I’m dying to sleep!” I suggested amicably.
Here I put my foot in it, awakening Emo’s old wound that once again I was breaking away from him and once again not following the steps that he, the Head-of-the-Yotov-Family, had laid out for the family’s entertainment that evening.
“We are a family and we must do everything together!!!!” he bellowed in my ear over the loud music. “You will stay here with your husband and have fun with him.”
Timidly, I quoted his beloved Dr. Alban, who had just reached the chorus, namely:
It’s my life, take it or leave it, set me free….
…..I felt a strong emotional connection with the artist, as I found close similarities between the problems of his lyrical hero and my own. In the context of the moment I identified completely with the lyrics of the chorus, and would only have added one more refrain after set me free: let me sleep.
Art has never moved Emo and here he made no exception. I was issued an order to stay and have fun. I stayed, but I couldn’t see how I was going to have fun.
And just then, as if reborn by the arrival of the magic hour of midnight, Greti strode confidently onto the dance floor and turned the game around. Turned it around, or rather, I would say, flipped it right over.
Because this was a new Greti, risen like the phoenix from the ashes of the quiet, modest Greti I was talking about a moment ago, who, by all appearances, was done for good.
Towards us, and more precisely towards me, with a determined step, came the Goddess-of-the-Dance-Floor, who with an authoritative gesture swung me round to face her so that we could start dancing together.
I had to admit she danced really well. Greta is an artistic soul and that’s obvious from her moves on the dance floor too. The girl is extraordinarily supple and has an innate feel for rhythm.
One dance with her, however, turned out to be so dynamic that it completely drained my already exhausted battery.
Our dance together finished me off. Staggering, I collapsed onto one of the booths in the club, where I apparently sank into a dead sleep. Neither music, nor noise and lights could disturb my restorative nap. Thank you to the owner of the place, who thought to cover me with a jacket.
The dance in question wrecked me and put me out of action, but for the ball of electrified energy called Greta, it turned out to be just the warm-up.
She threw herself into the heart of the event, roping into a complicated group choreography on the dance floor those team members who hadn’t yet keeled over. Since Emo turned out to be among them, Greti came over to me every so often to wake me up and reassure me that there was nothing to worry about.
I wasn’t particularly worried about the fact that my husband was dancing with people other than me. If I had a problem with that, I would have marched onto the dance floor and fenced him off as my territory, instead of lolling peacefully about on the couches nearby.
But Greti, being correct to the last, came at regular intervals to wake me, shower me with care and affection, and ask whether I minded her dancing with my husband.
I don’t mind, Greti! The only thing I mind is that just as I manage to drift off against the background of the thumping music, you come and tear me out of the arms of sleep again! Even though your hugs aren’t bad either, I prefer Morpheus’s, because tomorrow, or more precisely in a few hours, I have a long run with fartlek elements!
It must have been around 4–5 in the morning when the party finally ended, and only because the venue switched on the lights and started inviting us to leave.
At last my moment had come! Bed, silence, sleep, paradise!
A few months later it was time for Greta to send me photos so I could include her in my calendar of women runners. We had agreed that she would provide photographs connected with one of her hobbies: painting. Along with the requested shots, she sent me a few of her own choosing, among which I immediately spotted the undisputed winner.
That’s the photo I put in the calendar, and in my opinion it expresses Greta’s essence best. Look how the water is boiling and bubbling around her.
That’s just how she is on the dance floor too, and very probably in life as well!
A few more months after that, Greta and I are talking on the phone about something completely different. It’s about the ASICS Christmas party, which she didn’t attend.
Greta: “Hey, I saw in the chat that at 11:30 pm you started talking about how to share taxis?”
Me: “Well, that’s how it was, by midnight we were already in our beds.”
Greta: “And you call that a party?????????????????????”
Me: “Well, that’s what our parties are like when you’re not there. You absolutely have to come to the next one, so you can liven it up a bit! I’ll get a bottle of booze ready for you, so you loosen up in good time and not just towards the end of the night.”
Greta: “OH NO! At the next party I’m on water only…” After a short pause she thought it over and added, “water, and the odd little coffee now and then! I don’t need alcohol to bring your party to life!”
Since the essence of my calendar project was for us women to inspire one another (even though the sales statistics show that my models and I mainly inspire men), here I set out how Greta has inspired me.
With her unshakeable self-confidence, which allows her to wear her hair short, not fill her lips with fillers and still be the centre of the party.
Even if it’s on nothing but a little coffee and a little water.
Photos: Anomaly.bg, Petya Radkova, Tsanko Hristov, personal archive
