It's that time of year again. The month of my birthday, the time that I take up jogging again, thinking it's because of my devotion to desperately clinging to every breath of salty mediterranean air that I can pump into my lungs. Or maybe it's a deep appreciation of endless morning sea views surrounded by green fforests and chirping birds.
Or maybe it's the one-year anniversary of my 30th birthday. Maybe every time I pull up to a dinner table I am baptized in olive oil covered vegetables that seem to put 2 pounds on a girl at their mere sight.
It seems that I found myself in a similar situation around this time last year, reminding everyone that my birthday was arriving in just 3 days. That is the the 11th of October, not the 10th or 12th, or 19th like my sister's. No, this is not a desperate cry for attention on the eve of sealing the 30s deal.