March 14 was Pi Day. And I didn't even have any.

I have been known to sometimes occasionally okay, ALL THE TIME go to the refrigerator drive-through to eat until whatever emotion I am currently feeling (and don't want to anymore) goes away.

Helpful? If I want to go up a pants size, sure.

Does this make my butt look big?

Fooooooood, glorious fooooooooooood... you've always been there for me. Never letting me down. Never really helping, but always trying your best to fill whatever cavernous void was begging to be filled. Never mind that the giant hole was imaginary, and my stomach (and pants) only stretch so much, I ate whatever was in my way to make me feel better. Not unlike someone who cuts or burns themselves, I ate until I hurt. I'm not sure why I'm using "ate". Ate is past tense. I've done this as recently as yesterday.

And every time I succumb to my urge to binge, I look in the mirror. Usually with tear-filled eyes. And I give myself Manning Face.

Disappointed Payton is disappointed.

Life is stressful. Period. Throw in some variables such as a husband, wife, a few kids, jobs, aging parents, saving for whatever, making ends meet, disabilities, school, social life (or lack thereof), and life can just be pretty damned overwhelming. Food has always been my comfort. I may sound like I'm joking, but food never talked about me behind my back. Food never made fun of me and made me feel like I didn't belong. Food never left me. We celebrate with food - your favorite meal on your birthday, cake, ice cream, ice cream cake, Thanksgiving, Christmas - FOOD.

Now all those years of cramming food , eating my emotions, trying to find solace in something I knew wouldn't satisfy me has caught up with me. And I'm tired of not just looking at the size of my clothes, I'm tired of feeling this way. But you know what else? I'm just tired! I commute. I'm a single mom. Shortpants doesn't sleep worth a crap. Also?

I hate working out.

Hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns.

I've tried to like it. I've tried the plans, the diets, the workouts, the shakes, starving, all sorts of other unhealthy shit, and I know that it's simple math - burn off more than you take in - but I. HATE. IT.

This is the face I make when I try to eat stuff that's good for me. NOT a selfie, in case you were wondering.

I hate thinking what people at the gym are wondering when I'm jiggling over on the treadmill, I hate assuming that people driving by me as I walk are making fun of me, etc. My brain says "Shut up, stupid, they're not thinking anything that has anything to do with you." My lack of self-worth says "THEY'RE POINTING AT YOU. THEY'RE LAUGHING AT YOU. CALLING YOU FATASS AND SLOB AND CHEESEBURGER."

I am not nice.

To myself.

To everyone else I encounter, I'm overly pleasant. (Unless you know me. And then you know. And those of you that have stuck by me through the years, you have my eternal devotion. But of course you already know that.)

Do you know who Kid President is? If you said no, please leave this blog and go Google his ridiculously adorable face. I'll wait. Listen to his YouTube clips. Really listen. Because this 9 year old is changing my life. KP reminds me that shit's not that bad. Being mean (even to myself) shouldn't be an option. He is smart, eloquent, and says sage things like:

LOOK AT THAT FACE. And that cupcake. Nom.

Pity party over. Am I going to the gym? YES! Probably not. Am I going to make better, meaningful choices? Yes. He nailed it. Life is tough, no matter what cards are in the hand you were dealt. I'm going to stop being mean to myself and make this life meaningful. To stop wishing days would hurry past and live in the moment. To dance about it. To stop letting the scale and my pants size define me. To trust in others to help me through whatever it is I have going on. To remind myself I am not an island, and I deserve to be content. Proud. Loved. Every moment spent sad, angry frustrated, depressed, etc. is a moment I could have been happy. And happy is what I want to be. I choose to be. And damn, that's powerful.