I’m sitting in a child-decorated cheery kitchen after lacing up my new running shoes and aiming to head out on a cobweb shaking run. I woke up earlier to a bedroom view of a pink swashed Irish Sea— a barometer mark letting me know that right now is when I needed to get up if I wanted to be included in this moment: an opportunity to cap off a year that has brought so much goodness.

The rest of the house still asleep, I tiptoed into the bathroom while pushing low tide remnants of last night’s festivities to the far side of my brain. Directly to the west, a ripple of Wicklow Mountains stood above the treetops. Sugar Loaf Mountain is the faithful watchman standing over this slumbering World War I soldiers’ cottage. I splashed water on my face and crept downstairs— but by then five minutes had passed. The view, as one would expect with Irish weather, had already shifted. No longer a sharp focus of cloud and sky, Sugarloaf was gone and there were drifts of thick cotton settling in for the long haul. Weather in this country has a habit of doing that.

I did my usual best to deny that rain was falling. As unpredictable as the weather might be, surely the sun could soon return. I’ve found myself in this situation many times before. I dug each foot into a shoe. Then the whistling came.

By the time my laces were double knotted, the rain was falling in big, steady drops and the wind was talking like it wanted to be the next named storm. Should I be making this unnecessary journey? I was sure to get soaked and perhaps slip on the pavement if I went out there, but goddamnit I was already dressed and ready to go. All I needed was to put on a hat and I’d be grand, as they say over here.  Habits, no matter how good or bad, are kinda hard to break and I was heading for the ocean no matter the weather.

This would not only be the last run of 2015, but there was an additional consideration that I had just spent the better part of two months ingesting things that are delicious and probably not found on any reasonable food pyramid.  My waistline— just as much as my brain— desperately needed to record a few miles before I got on with the rest of the day.

It is New Year’s Eve and much like every year, I’ll spend little to no time reflecting on how I’d like to find myself come December 31, 2016. I’ve found that not only are my routines hard to change, but for the most part everything that I’m doing comprises an existence that makes me happy. I’m more or less content to continue throwing myself into bad food-bad running weather combos that may or may not produce outcomes that qualify me as postable for social media.

Resolutions? I honestly don’t know what that means. When the 2015 calendar is finally pulled off the wall, what I’m really looking for is to still have all of my friends and family running around this planet alongside me. Good health and finding folks who are damn fool enough to support and even join in on my silly routines are better than any kind of ephemeral resolution.

The house is finally waking up here and I find that either the rain is calming down or the rustling upstairs is making the weather sound far less imposing. I feel the compunction to slap outdoors now before the morning can change any further and keep me inside. Before my friends can pad downstairs and redirect me with the finest coffee, sausage and rashers that Ireland can buy you. So now to finish the last morning of the year as I love  before coming back and spending a few hours with people I love.

It’s been a year to remember and I can’t wait to see what comes next.