I'm sitting on my couch with my dog. I'm surrounded by all my stuff, some in luggage, some waiting to be packed, which I will shuttle to a new place in less than a week.

I'm excited about moving, because -- in the ultimate act of shopping therapy -- I purchased a home. I'm devastated about moving, because it's the end of something I thought would never end.

The first person I told was my boss. In retrospect, that's hilarious. But at the time, it was all I could think to do when I had absolutely no idea what to do. Should I stay in St. Louis, where I moved in a huge leap of faith? Or would I limp back to the East coast to figure it all out later?

I obviously decided to stay. There's too much happening here for me to leave. And maybe that makes it the easiest choice, but I'm okay with that.

It's been two months.

The hardest thing is the decrease in communication. I barely look at my phone. No one's texting me. Gchat is mostly silent. Meanwhile, I hear her phone buzzing and beeping away. I blame it on her younger cohort, Snapchatting and texting at every opportunity.

The upside? I spend less money on food. I don't care what I eat or if i eat when I get home from work. I didn't really go out before. I barely go out now. Those dollars are definitely adding up. Then there are my friends, even the relatively new ones. Their incredible compassion has brought me to tears over and over again, and they've stepped in to fill the void with texts, emails, and phone calls.

Finally, there's Spencer. I know he's "just a dog," but he keeps me going. He needs to pee, he needs to poop, and he needs to eat. He can't do those things without me, and he's so happy when he gets them done. He's my most reliable source of joy.

The last month has been one of faux normalcy, so I think the move will be a huge shock. I've never lived alone.