Press on Regardless

John P. Meade used to order something he called a "Press On Regardless" at the Yacht Club bar after an afternoon racing sailboats on Long Island Sound. He did not want to drink booze, knowing himself and his shortcomings well. A stiff drink in the late afternoon, the pursuit of many others, almost surely would spell the end of all productivity, and it was a mystery as to whether he'd become caustic or mellow towards those around him. Meade's concoction was a simple combination of tonic water, angostura bitters and lime, served on the rocks in a highball glass by a bartender he had known for decades. It represented a 'welcome home' gesture of refreshing restraint after hours out in the sun and wind and salt, starkly contrasting with the rum and gin laced preference of most of the other sailors with their florid, sunburnt visages, looking more like lobsters than men, loud brawlers infamous for never knowing when to stop. Meade set a good example, living well below his means among a crowd whose hue and cry was closer to carpe diem.

A mental P.O.R. chit is coming due these days. I'm not at a bar, nor am I out on the water racing sailboats, but many long-considered, conservatively held, anticipated things are just not going my way. The house and work are not happening. The family is not together. The bank account resembles a farm's soil during a drought, parched and cracked, berefit of fruit. I fear for the future. The time for change will have unintended consequences, I'm afraid. When I read the news, my sense is that I am not alone, that there are many others like me, silent, fearful, poised on the verge of falling off a steep precipice. Analysts use the metaphor of a bubble about to burst to describe the real estate situation, and it is apt. The longer it takes for us to sell our house, for me to find new work and for the family to move on, the closer and longer we come to jeopardizing everything. I cannot overstate it: the balance is just that fragile. So even though this discussion may not be about life and death, it is about hope and future expectations, and thoughts of Job and patience, ill fortune and perseverance, past prodigality. A depression now prevails, predominating over clear and sunny thought. Inside, it is always a raw and wet gray day without a cloudbreak to steer for, a distant spot of light on the horizon.

So I steel myself and press on, knowing not how deep my reserve may be, regardless. I still have faith. I am not talking of religion, but faith in Darwin, faith in luck, faith that the strong survival will. It is about determination, not resignation, balls of steel, intestinal fortitude. It is the only way to fly. Chin up and carry on! Vive the Press on Regardless!