So, I'm supposed to just carry on?
Get my nails done. Get my hair done. Buy groceries. Cook supper. Clean my house. Fill up my car. Watch TV. Pay my bills. Love my husband. Take my daughter to the movies. Or shopping for shoes.
I'm supposed to do all these every-day things between now and Tuesday... or Wednesday, if they don't get to me on Tuesday -- or maybe Thursday.
And then I'm just supposed to walk into a room and wait for a man in a tie to tell me, "Yes. We want you."
"No. We don't."
Like they do to the contestants on American Idol.
And then I'm just supposed to get up and go to work the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next, just like nothing has happened.
And then I'm supposed to read the Facebook posts and tweets and blogs from my friends and colleagues as they pour out their hurt and anger and say their farewells.
And I'm not supposed to cry when they tell us all what an honor and a privilege it has been to do what we've been doing.
But we won't be doing it any more.
And I'm supposed to just watch friends and co-workers disappear.
I don't know if I can.