Sometimes you have conversations that if anyone overheard they’d think you had gone totally nuts but they make perfect sense to you.
Yesterday, the beloved and I had a heated debate about the name of my inner weasel. Your inner weasel is the part of you that gets in your own way on an almost majestic level. Your weasel presses the snooze button too many times, scrolls through Twitter getting angrier rather than reading a book, your weasel is too tired to meditate and thinks a box of Krispy Kremes is a good dinner. None of these things are bad every now and again but give in to your inner weasel too often and he becomes drunk on power. When that happens you become sloth-like, irritatable, fueled by sugar and rage and are delightful to be around.
I have decided that my inner weasel needs putting in his place as he’s upsetting my inner pixie. Your pixie is the part of you that is filled with joy. What fulfils her will be individual to you. Nina, my inner pixie, loves reading, rock music, painted nails, long walks, being by the sea, early quiet mornings, mugs of tea, dinner with friends and baking. Nina is feeling neglected.
The problem is, you cannot fight what you cannot name. The beloved is convinced my inner weasel is called Nigel. Nigel! I ask you? Nigel?! My inner weasel cannot be called Nigel. Nigel is a smug, irritating git who gets his kicks by upsetting others.
Oh my God, my inner weasel is called Nigel. He must be defeated.