Following Suit

Working in a white-collar job necessitates business attire nearly everyday. Unfortunately ties and jackets are not optional except on Hawaiian shirt Fridays and the occasional sweater vest Wednesday when I'm feeling exceptionally bold.
This means that my wardrobe consists of a constantly rotating suit and tie combo. This also means that they wear out rather quickly and need replacing. My wife noticed last week that my standby black suit was looking a little worse for the wear. I don't mind the rumpled sportcoat with the hem hanging out and the chowder stain on the lapel, but I can see how it might be considered slightly unprofessional. When you instinctually use your sleeve as a napkin/kleenex/quicker-picker-upper, there's only so much Martinizing can fix.
But I have a big issues with suit shopping due to my circus freak measurements. Do you know how hard it is to find a 44 short? Nearly impossible. And forget about cherrypicking a matching pair of pants from the rack with a 36 inch waist and a 28 inseam. No Alice, Tweedledee wasn't a figment of Lewis Carroll's imagination, it was based on yours truly.
Think barrel-chested midget.
You see, the seamstress I usually go to is an extremely judgmental Asian woman. Other than the hacks at Men's Wearhouse (sic) and the cheap-o dry-cleaners, she's the only one in town. And she's good, but makes you feel like crap during the fitting:
"You rearry, rearry fat," she sighs, shaking her head in disapproval. "This no good. My tape measure too small. You shape like beach ball. I not magician. Where your self-disiprine?"
I just nod and hang my head in shame while she lets a out little more fabric.
So to avoid the humiliation, I do my best to find clothing that doesn't need alterations and doesn't involve an elastic waist. But this usually devolves into a lot of rolled-up sleeves and wet dragging pant legs. The do-it yourself fashion sizing never took off and safety pins never caught on as an accessory outside the punk goth crowd.
But on Saturday evening, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine illuminated an anchor store clearance rack. Like a fashion miracle, it appeared before me amongst the cursed athletic thin fits, nestled between a 40 tall and a 46 regular. The elusive 44 short! My holy grail of jacket sizes. And what would be coupled with it? A 36-30 pair of trousers. Not perfect, but they'll do.
It was as if James Cash Penney himself descended from heaven, gave me a wink and whispered in my ear, "Thank you, faithful shopper, I made this just for you."
No, thank you J.C. (we're on a first name/initial basis).
It was a rearry, rearry good day.