Just in case you thought it was all bad - - -

Here's a very happy story just to let you know it isn't always crappy to be me.

When I was working for the government about 15 years ago, I had a pretty high-profile, "important" job and I wore a suit and tie every day. Years before, I stumbled across this exceedlingly kind big-n-tall shop owner in Los Angeles who knew my shape, what worked on me, and kept an eye out for clothes I would like. But mostly the selection was poor. I wore navy or black slacks, white or light blue dress shirts, ho hum ties and, I'm afraid to say, dark acrylic sweater vests like Benny on L.A. Law. They covered up my belly and hid the gap between the bottom of my tie and my belt (I didn't know there were extra long ties). I was so reliant on the sweater vests that I wore them in the summer, in L.A.

We big guys usually have to pick from polyester crap in colors you just wouldn't believe - I remember a tomato soup-colored blazer that was on the rack in the store for months, and the variety of biege, tan and Ace Bandage-colored polyester suits was so unflattering and so depressing that for years I had to rely on either a navy blazer or a tweed sports coat to go with everything I wore. There just wasn't anything available.

By the way, the names for the big man's shops were sooooo bad. King Size Shoppe. High-N-Mighty. BigFella. I particularly hated BigFella because their bags were egg-yolk yellow and emblazoned with their name on both sides, so when you bought something you became a waddling billboard. It was awful. Once my Grandma noticed I was wearing something new and she said, "Where did you get it - Mr. Fat?" I said, "No, I got it at Mr. Humongo!"

So one day my clothes scout called me and said, "I just got two Armani double-breasted suits that I think would be perfect for you." Armani? No way! I didn't want to get my hopes up, but I said, "Charge it!" and a week later they arrived. Oh my, they were so beautiful, and they fit perfectly! The first one was a dark gray wool with a nice heft to the material, and it was stylish - it was a quality garment, something rarely available to fat men.

The second suit was really a gorgeous thing - a handsome olive khaki color with a subtle stripe in a creamy, dense wool fabric, and it was double breasted, with wide lapels and perfect tailoring. Really, it was beautiful. I ran to Nordstrom and got a pair of wing tips in oxblood, some jazzy olive socks, and an absolutely gorgeous extra-long tie which was sort of a rusty maroon color with gold retro designs on it. At the local BigFella I found a cream-colored cotton dress shirt with french cuffs that fit perfectly, and a belt to match my new shoes.

The next morning I gave myself twice as much time as usual to get ready for work. Since I had to use cufflinks, I reached into my old jewelry box and fished out a handsome pair of gold cufflinks and my grandfather's gold watch (it pinched my wrist and tore hairs from my arm every time I wore it, but it looked great). Everything fit, everything was stain-free, and I never felt so "together" in my life. I was bubbling with joy. I wasn't wearing a sweater vest! I even switched to a brown leather brief case because it looked better with my outfit. I skipped the Starbucks that morning for fear I would spill. Who needed caffeine anyway? Not that morning. Man, I was so happy.

Our offices were in a skyscraper in downtown Seattle. I pulled into the parking lot and came up to the grand lobby. I could tell I was jaunty as hell, just trucking along with a big grin. I rounded the corner and stood waiting at the bank of elevators, practically purring.

An attractive woman in her 30's joined me to wait for the next elevator. I gave her a smile and a jaunty "Good Morning!" and she said, "Hi" and smiled back. I felt her look me up and down, with a smile on her face. The elevator arrived and we were the only riders, both facing forward. I was wearing a touch of cologne, and she sniffed the air approvingly.

As the express whisked us up 30 stories, the smiling lady turned to me, looked me up and down again, and said, "You are the best looking fat man I ever saw!"

I chuckled and said, "Thank you," and a moment later she got off the elevator, still smiling.

It was maybe the greatest compliment I ever got about the way I looked. It acknowledged my fatness and somehow incorporated it in the compliment without turning it into one of those, "You would be so attractive if you were thin" sort of sideways remarks. And it came from a stranger who did an appraisal and felt compelled to tell me I had scored. I realize someone else might look at what she said and think it was insulting, but it didn't feel like that to me.

When I got off the elevator I dumped off my brief case in my office, grabbed a manila file (it looked perfect with my outfit) and went for a little tour, you know, just to show off the look. I stuck my head in various doors, chatted with everyone, and worked it. I even went to the other floors of the office just to parade. I got compliments left and right. I was ebullient. I don't think I got anything done that day. I just existed in a bubble of happiness.

It was a sunny day, and I went to meet my friend Victor for lunch at a nearby glam restaurant. I happened to have a new pair of sunglasses with turtleshell frames, and I thought, "God, it never ends! It's all so damned perfect!" I walked the three blocks to the restaurant, bouncing on my feet like Mary Tyler Moore, smiling and winking at passersby. God, I was ridiculous, but who cares? You would think I was in love. Well, maybe I was - with myself.

My gorgeous friend Victor was "suitably" impressed and caressed the fabric appreciatively. He showered me with compliments and it was hard to concentrate on our conversation, because I was so damned happy. I ordered something solid, and I didn't spill. I felt like a movie star.

On the way back to the office I found myself humming "What a Feeling" by Irene Cara and it was all I could do not to burst into a Fred Astaire moment. And I just felt invincible.