Ladies and gentlemen, set your minds at ease: Alice found an apartment. Alice is moving. Alice is so delighted with this that she is speaking of herself in the third person.

There was a manic week in which I stalled a broker, pled my case to a building owner, all but bribed a building manager, and tried to track down vacationing Human Resource people to verify my employment. But... I have an apartment. I have, in fact, the loft I wanted, which means I have a place I love, get to stay in my marvelous neighborhood, and will save a significant amount of rent each month. I am giddy all around.

Signing the lease was oddly scary. On the one hand, I was thrilled and excited and calling all my friends to tell them. On the other hand, there's something a little unnerving about making that kind of commitment — and any commitment is problematic for me at the moment. Change has never been something I'm good at, and this will be a big change.

I'm also — and I know you're shocked by this — overanalyzing. Why I feel the need to make every action in my life some kind of metaphor I don't know. At least it makes for something to write about.

What will not be fun: coming home after the holidays and packing, selling off furniture, making the inevitable 12 trips to the Salvation Army, cleaning, moving, unpacking.

What will be fantastic: getting rid of everything I don't like and don't need, hanging things on my fabulous high walls, stringing lights across my pillars and pipes, the turning of this space into a home. My home. My home without a partner, without sharing, without compromise.

This week, I am a grownup, suddenly.