My wonderful, loving, caring much younger wife has helped me over the years convert my beerlove from an almost-12-pack-a-night cheap lite shit habit to a more refined occasional local-microbrew-or-two per week one, and my health's all the better for it. Honestly. I'm healthier and feel better in my fifties than I did in my twenties and thirties thanks to her. Between the above-mentioned habit shift and an almost 80 lb. weight loss over a few years I quite literally owe her my life. Stepping on our scale is a morning routine, and this morning I found myself feeling bloated while undressing for my shower. Yesterday we picked up a sixer of one of many awesome local Octoberfests (wifey's a fiend) now that they're coming out, and we each sipped a couple while Netflixing and enjoying an intensely heavy thunderstorm. So this morning I stripped naked and, after observing my paunch in the mirror reluctantly stepped on the old honesty meter. Disappointed? Sure, but I k