My stomach rumbled as I peeled off the cardboard on a pile of foil trays and sunk down into our big, comfy sofa. ‘It smells so good,’ I grinned as my boyfriend, Matt, then 28, piled the Chinese food onto our plates and I unscrewed a bottle of rosé. It was August 2015, we’d not long got back from a family holiday to Turkey with my kids from a previous relationship, Hollie, then nine, and Mason, five.
We’d had an amazing time, but before I prepared to go back to my job as a maternity care assistant at my local hospital, I just wanted to relax in front of the TV with Matt and tuck into my favorite takeaway.
Struggling to breathe
Though, moments like this weren’t exactly a rare treat. While I’d cook something healthy for the kids after school, as soon as Matt came home from his job in construction, we’d order in a Chinese or Indian takeaway for ourselves – often up to five times a week.
After eating several plates full of spare ribs, special fried rice, and prawn balls, I sat back and slowly sipped my glass of wine. Only, something didn’t feel quite right – I could feel my chin resting on my chest and the skin was rubbing together. It felt uncomfortable and I struggled to breathe properly. ‘Are you OK?’ Matt asked as I wriggled around, trying to get comfy.
‘I think I’m probably just getting a bit too fat for this,’ I groaned, wedging my hand between my chin and my chest to stop the skin touching.
‘What? Too fat to watch TV?’ Matt said with a chuckle. I laughed, too – he was right, it was a bit ridiculous.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 30, 2019-Ausgabe von WOMAN'S OWN.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 30, 2019-Ausgabe von WOMAN'S OWN.
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