The nadir (from Arabic: نظير / ALA-LC: naẓīr; meaning “opposite”) is the direction pointing directly below a particular location; that is, it is one of two vertical directions at a specified location, orthogonal to a horizontal flat surface there. Since the concept of being below is itself somewhat vague, scientists define the nadir in more rigorous terms. Specifically, in astronomy, geophysics and related sciences (e.g., meteorology), the nadir at a given point is the local vertical direction pointing in the direction of the force of gravity at that location. The direction opposite of the nadir is the zenith.
The word is also used figuratively to mean the lowest point of a person’s spirits or the quality of an activity or profession.
And there I was in my own nadir. That’s it. I succumbed to self-pity. No amount of big-girl-pants were going to the trick. Long weekends alone suck, they just do. I’d had invitations from friends, but (as Joe Jackson puts it ‘Happy couples aren’t no friends of mine’) declined. I was in a strip mall the other day and passed by an elderly couple holding hands; the sight sent me into a deluge of weeping. A paroxysm I think it’s called; I’ve always wanted to use the word, but never thought it would be in this context. My MIL said to me the other day “Take them up on the invites, Girlie, believe me; after a while they stop asking you”.
In any event, my good old doc put me in bed in the hospital with a drip and eventually the crying stopped for long enough that he let me come home. (I expect the shock of the hospital food had much to do with my swift recovery).
What is known colloquially as pap en vleis would probably get more approval if Georgio Locatelli served it up as chargrilled beef sirloin fricassee with trevisano and polenta.
It’s frightfully cold here; I own seven blankets and had them all piled on top of me last night. In the early hours I awoke and – through the gloom – I imagined I heard my husband chatting to our friend JB in the kitchen, as they often used to when he and his wife, Annie, visited from Australia. It gets to me; those moments when I become suddenly aware that I am no longer part of a couple. Sort of like waking from a dream where you’d dreamed you were in the midst of a riotous party and then there was no detritus; just a pristine kitchen.
Some things I still do as a single person that I did when my status was otherwise:
1. Close the bathroom door when I use the toilet, even though there is nobody around.
2. Check my email at 2.45am if I am awake.
3. Wake Lulubelle when she is in deep sleep to check she is alive and hasn’t stopped breathing.
4. Eat all my meals with a knife and fork.
5. Wear far too much junk jewelry.
6. Let my new rabbit on the bed with me. Say hello to Big Red Betsy, my new housemate:
The food posts will commence soon; at the moment my appetite goes something like the children’s song:
Ooh, ooh I’m a lonely croc
Lying all day on my lonely rock
I want friends with all my might
But non-one likes me appletite …