I had, naturally, cut back on all nonessential spending since the layoff. Like a lot of people in the country, I watched in disbelief as the economy fell off a cliff, banged into the side of the mountain, rolled a few times, then burst into flames at the bottom. The earth split open and what was left continued falling to hell, where, as far as I know, it’s still smoldering. When I was laid off, Bernie Madoff was a respected investor living on the Upper East Side. That’s how long ago it was. Nobody knew the storm that was coming.

Today, I live day to day, hour to hour and sometimes minute to minute. I work, seven days a week, at the small freelance jobs I’m happy to take, work that makes it possible to survive another day – and which pays as much as 50 percent less than what I made doing the exact same work five years ago. My life now almost completely revolves around making money, far more than it did when I actually had that nest egg. Sometimes I’m OK with that, and sometimes I really miss it. $35,000 seems like a fortune now. It’s getting harder to remember what it was like to make split-second decisions, like going out to dinner or a movie, going away for the weekend. I can’t even imagine buying a new office chair, far less going to the dentist or the doctor. Did I once actually sign up for boxing lessons? There were so many little things I just took care of and didn’t think about.

Nothing needed to be juggled. No monthly bill needed to be rolled over to the next month so another could be settled. No late fees. No reconnection fees. No bounced check fees. No payment plans arranged. No automated phone calls two and three times a day warning me about service interruptions. Not having money costs money.

And now, here comes Christmas, a time when the world turns into one big carrot dangling in front of your face. On one hand, it’s like another bill I can’t pay. But if I don’t let the sadness and the defeat get to me, I feel a strange detachment from all this consumer frenzy. I feel an odd peace. Perhaps it’s the peace of Christ. Perhaps it’s the peace of denial. But I think it’s something more than that. Here are few reasons why being short on cash at Christmas is a weird gift in itself:

You don’t have to fight store mobs.

The crush of people inside Macy’s, the snaking lines at the mall? Not even on my radar. The only store I go to is the grocery store, and I haven’t bought any clothes in two years, save for some new T-shirts. Mobs freak me out, anyway. If you want real peace on earth, avoid all shopping in December.

Being cash-strapped forces you to be inventive.

I recently attended a reception for a friend who was married last summer and noticed she didn’t have an official photographer. I had brought my camera just in case and, after dinner when people were dancing, I quietly walked around snapping assorted drunken relatives, 95-year-olds and smiling guests at their tables. I had the photos made into an album for less than $10 and sent it to the bride with a congratulatory card. She called and said it was the nicest gift she’d ever gotten in her life.

A full fridge, after cashing a paycheck, is Christmas any time of the year.

Bread. Coffee. Peanut butter. Fresh greens and fruits. Yams. Going to sleep knowing that your fridge is full when you’ve cashed your check and gone straight to the supermarket feels like Christmas even when it’s not Christmas. Grapes never tasted so sweet and bagels never so chewy.

You come to appreciate the little things, like an electric Jesus.

There are blizzards of bulbs, tinsel, lights, electric Santas and Jesuses hanging from people’s trees, doorways, bushes, porches and desks. You could say that it’s childish and a waste of time. But there’s another energy about it, an energy that says, “We all agree, for the moment, to forget the troubles of this world, to raise a glass and dammit, be merry.” If we can’t come to a consensus on religion, or politics, at least we can come to a consensus on fun.

Hey, it’s better for the environment.

Christmas is one of the most un-green holidays; approximately 4 million tons of wrapping paper, tags, ribbons, boxes and other gift paraphernalia are tossed on Dec. 25 and the day after, according to one report, and that doesn’t include all the lousy presents people toss. I don’t say this to be scolding, because who doesn’t like tearing into a wrapped gifts? But one of the tough lessons of being broke is just how wasteful we can be, without ever really thinking about it.

Money doesn’t buy happiness — and being without it doesn’t have to produce misery.

I hope to get a steady, good-paying gig soon, thank you very much. But I’m happier in ways now than when I was working full-time in that kinda smelly office with the fluorescent lights and sadistic, insane supervisor. Everything isn’t so *important* now. What I feared the most has come to pass – I’ve been fired, failed to get another full-time job, my money’s gone, and it’s Christmas. It ain’t like I’ve been cut from the reindeer team because of a red nose.

The best stuff really is still the free stuff.

iPods and Kindles are nice. But they’re nothing compared to the sun, the wind, the smile on a kid’s face when you look at him sideways, the pleasure of playing the guitar I’ve played every day since I was 14, the warm body of my warm wife. Sure, having no money at Christmas can feel like a curse. Having no presents under the tree can be depressing. But each day can feel like a gift from existence if you look at it that way.

The color drains from his face.

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope. Not kidding.”

- – - – - – - – - – - -

I knew, from the time I was old enough to know what a woman was, that I loved big women. As a kid, the “before” photos in diet ads fascinated me. The bespectacled, round beauties hiding under Snoopy sweatshirts in the corner of the school cafeteria made my heart pound. A plump teacher, a full-figured classmate, a cushiony customer in the deli I worked at in high school — all were early crushes.

But as a teen, I worshipped from afar. While my friends ogled high school cheerleaders and drooled over Playboy and Penthouse, I felt guilty and freakish for wanting these women, and I told no one. At that time, there was only one magazine for men who wanted to see what fat women looked like without their clothes on. It was a no-budget affair published in New Jersey, and some of the models were missing teeth; but others were delicious-looking, round and smiling, proud of their generous figures. I drove 40 miles from Westchester to Manhattan to buy my copy the day it hit the newsstands every month.

In every other regard, though, I was a typical teenage guy, with a surplus of raging hormones. I lost my virginity at 16 with a plump girlfriend of two weeks, and then soon began dating an apple-cheeked neighborhood tough girl. When I moved out of my parents’ house into Manhattan, I went out with women I met through mutual friends, at clubs and at classes. All were thin or close to it. I loved the sweet details of those relationships: holding hands on the street, talking on the phone after midnight, making out, sleeping together. But I just didn’t feel anything approaching atomic longing for any of those women — no matter how smart or conventionally sexy they were. And I knew what the problem was. I wanted a woman with a belly, a butt, thighs; I wanted lots of soft flesh to look at, to touch and put my arms around.

When I was alone, I questioned the origin of my longing. Was it a fetish, spurred by some suppressed childhood trauma, to be analyzed and cured so that I might someday develop a “normal” attraction to the women in Victoria’s Secret catalog? Or was it something I was born with, like my perfect pitch and an ability to touch my nose with my tongue? Having a “fetish” usually means one needs a certain object or body type to become sexually aroused, and that isn’t — and wasn’t — my situation. I am attracted to women of all sizes. I just prefer a big lady, the way some women prefer a big, tall, hunky guy.

Delving into the past, I found my desires validated. The cult of thinness is strictly a modern-day phenomenon. In Billy Wilder’s screen classic, “Some Like It Hot” (1959), there is a scene where Marilyn Monroe — arguably the most famous sex symbol of all time — is lounging on a bed, with a very prominent, jiggly belly apparent underneath her slip. In 1943′s Broadway production of “Oklahoma,” the character Will Parker admiringly describes his favorite burlesque bombshell this way: “One of the gals was fat and pink and pretty/ as round above as she was round below.” Lillian Russell, a superstar singer, popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and pursued by countless admirers, weighed over 200 pounds. Clearly, once upon a time, a penchant for plump women was nothing to be embarrassed about.

So after embarking on countless dates, and even being engaged for three years to an average-size woman, I decided to charge ahead and find a partner who not only had the requisite heart, soul and intelligence, but was also way, way bigger than me. With the aid of the Internet, I refined and pinpointed my search, the same way any man might if he were looking for a woman of a particular religion or age.

My first online date was with a 5-foot-1-inch, 325-pound, 22-year-old model. After a nice dinner, a walk and a late-night stroll, we ended up together for a night. That was when I put my money where my fantasies were; she was a woman who was approximately three times as big as any other human being I had ever touched. She was also, I realized, a living, breathing, feeling person, not an image in a magazine, with vulnerabilities and needs of her own. I didn’t quite know where to start. But after a while, I began to happily, gently lose myself in her spheres, her bountiful soft flesh, her tiny lips and enormous hips. A long-term relationship wasn’t in the cards, but that night was an exclamation point to my years of exploration, and it satisfied a deep longing. I wanted more.

I thought I’d make a sudden leap into a new world of physical bliss, but I realized I wasn’t just looking for sex regardless of personality. I wanted to fall in love, to share a life together, to do all the things I’d done with the thin women I’d dated. I started visiting dances for big women and the men who loved them, and immersed myself in online communities of like-minded men and women. Slowly, liking fat girls stopped being something I needed to hide. I believe my preference is akin to liking polka or silent movies; not everyone is into it, but just because you are doesn’t make you a freak. You’re just a part of a lesser segment of society. I find many fat women profoundly beautiful to look at and touch, though I realize that by saying so I am embracing an altogether different standard of beauty than does most of the Western world.

I finally saw her sitting in the window of the Coffee Pot on West 49th. She was 24, had a mane of red hair, freckles on her plump arms, and sported a tan vinyl skirt over a size 18 frame. I’d placed a personal ad, she’d answered, and we agreed to meet. We didn’t intend to spend the night together, but our first date ended up being 16 hours long. Neither of us wanted to go home, and home soon became wherever the other one was. A few months later, Julie moved into my place; five years later we were married.

She’d always been plump, even as a toddler in Dayton, Ohio. When we met, she told me about enduring doctors’ snide comments and how her mother was always urging her to lose weight for her health or because, as she said, “Men don’t like fat girls.” That Julie turned out a healthy, happy, confident person thriving in Manhattan, making a living as a singer and actress, and working in the plus-size fashion industry was remarkable; I was and am very proud of her. I am also still desperately attracted to her, 10 years later.

My family never said a word about our relationship. I know it must be tough for them to keep quiet, because they read the New York Times and all the other papers of record that regularly announce that obesity is a national health crisis. But other than one conversation I had with my 5-foot-tall, 100-pound mother two years ago, when she asked, “Don’t you think Julie should lose weight?” I’ve heard not a peep from anyone. I don’t know whether that silence is born out of acceptance, politeness or indifference.

Which isn’t to say I don’t privately fret. I’d like Julie to live a long, long time, and I, too, read every article about heart disease, joint pain, diabetes and the innumerable other ailments afflicting the obese. But usually, in chorus with the fear, another small voice in my head chimes in. Health, it says, is not only physical; it’s also mental, spiritual and emotional. And not only is Julie physically healthier than I am — though I eat raw veggies, run and lift weights six days a week — but she’s also more balanced, less impulsive and kinder to herself and others, all things I’d like to be.

Finally, my wife was big when I found her. It isn’t as though I grew her from a seedling into a 200-plus-pound tomato. I can’t take responsibility for someone else’s body; it’s all I can do to take care of my own. I won’t accept being labeled a closet Kevorkian just because I love a woman and her fat, too.

And how does she feel about me and my passion for her body? “I love it,” she says. “For years I thought I would have to find someone who loved me in spite of my size, someone who would be willing to put up with it. To have someone adore me and my body is a gift.” Julie isn’t big enough for people to gawk and say, “Oh, my God, look at that enormous woman!” though she still does, from time to time, come home stung by cruel comments from jerks on the Manhattan streets. But these are balanced by the number of compliments she gets everywhere else.

Now I don’t keep quiet when people make comments about fat people in front of me, and I sometimes make a point of telling colleagues I like big girls if it comes up — or if they linger over the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. When someone makes a sizeist remark about fat women, though, my fists clench and my heart beats a little faster.

Not long ago, at a business breakfast of eight men and one woman, another colleague, a 50-something journalist — with a sizable gut himself — told a fat-chick joke, the one about “rolling her in flour and finding the wet spot.” I took a deep breath.

“I gotta tell you something, Mike. I love fat women, and I’m married to one. You’re entitled to your opinion, but comments like that aren’t going to float with me…”