There's a Path for a Reason

by Lisa Lombardi in ,

In 2001, I quit my job, moved all my stuff into storage, and spent the next four months driving around the country by myself. There’s hardly a week that goes by where I don’t think about that time – usually with wistful longing and an aching homesickness for the time in my life when I legitimately had no home.

And then, sometimes, I remember how that was also the time I almost died.


Both of my arms were shaking as I braced myself against the inner walls of the crevice. I tried again to lift myself up and over the edge of the cliff, back to safety.

Not happening.

Twelve feet below my dangling legs was the compact desert ground, littered with rocks and small boulders. Overhead, the gray sky rumbled and drops of rain continued to fall, getting faster with every minute. I could see the parking lot in the distance.

My racing heart suddenly slowed and I felt a surprising clarity.

Okay. So this is how my trip ends.


Here’s the thing: I swear I’m not a careless idiot. I’m the girl who spent more than six months meticulously planning the aforementioned four-month-long solo road trip. I’m that weirdo who accompanies all decisions, from college to dates, with a pro/con list. Y’know the nerd who never had detention a day in her life because she always followed the rules? Present.

Yet there I was, hanging off the edge of a cliff somewhere in the heart of Devils Garden in Arches National Park, all because I didn’t stay on the trail.

I had made it halfway through my hike and was ready to turn back when thunder crackled in the distance. The trail was empty; the dark clouds had deterred everyone else that morning.

A flash of lightning. I needed to get back to my car now.

In that moment, I made the cardinal mistake that derailed everything: I tried to take a shortcut.

The parking lot peeked just beyond the horizon and I recklessly thought I could get there before the skies opened up if I made a beeline straight for it. I scaled boulders that made backtracking impossible and dead-ended on the edge of a small cliff.

As an experienced jungle gym scaler and rock climbing dabbler, my solution was simple: I’d wedge myself in the large crack in the cliffside and shimmy down. But as soon as I lowered myself over the edge, my brain finally kicked in: WHAT. NO. TOO HIGH. WHAT ARE YOU DOING. ABORT. ABORT.

I froze.


There was no way back up. There was no one around to help me. The only way was down.

I took a deep breath and made peace with the fact that I was probably going to break a few bones. Then, I let go.

I fell, scraping and banging against juts along the way. The ground rushed up, uneven and angry, and – miraculously – my feet each landed on impossibly narrow channels of dirt between the large rocks.

For a long minute, I was numb. Then the burning of my skinned shins kicked in; the throbbing of my bruised hips. There were tears on my face and my hair was soaked from the rain, but... nothing more. I took a hesitant step. Then another. My legs were still in tact.

I hobbled the rest of the way to the parking lot and got in my car, the lone vehicle remaining.

I sat for a minute behind the wheel, and two crucial thoughts pulsed in my brain.

  1. My mom must never know about this.

  2. Stay on the path, you dummy.

That Time I Sold Myself for Charity

by Lisa Lombardi in ,

I can probably count on two hands the number of times I've been asked out on a real date. Narrow it down to requests from someone I'm actually interested in? One hand.

I've never been the girl that guys flock to, or flirt with, or talk about with each other — like, "Is she gonna be at the party? Is she single?" 

I've never been the girl who gets the attention. 

Until two weeks ago.

My attitude toward life for the past six months has gone a little something like this: fuck it.

I was fed up with roommates, flaky friends, internet dating nonsense, money worries, job troubles, and my life in general. So I started taking a new approach.

Sick of my living situation? I moved, broken budget be damned. Tired of trying to arrange outings with other people? I started going solo and exploring on my own. Bored and unappreciated at work? Time to stop saving those vacation days.

This might sound like common sense to most people, but for someone who's spent the majority of her life meticulously planning, constantly worrying, and always trying to please everyone else, this was a revelation. And it was at that point that an email circulated around the office: a friend of an employee was running a date auction for a local charity and needed volunteers to be auctioned off.

Fuck it. Sign me up.

NAME: Lisa L
AGE: 29
OCCUPATION: Copywriter
INTERESTS/HOBBIES: Reading, road tripping, trying out new recipes, fixing up my apartment, exploring the city, pretending I'm outdoorsy
SUPERHERO POWER I'D LIKE TO HAVE: Teleportation (no more parking tickets or taking the T!)

I submitted my profile info and then promptly forgot about it for the majority of the next few weeks. It felt like this abstract thing that I mentioned to people, as a sort of "Isn't this hilarious?" conversation topic. (Also: a "these things still exist!" conversation topic.) It didn't feel like something I was really going to have to do.

Until the week before, of course.

In a panic, I got my hair cut and colored. It was a disaster, and I had to go back to the salon to get it fixed. I walked around with frizz and zits for days, certain it wouldn't get better before the auction. In my attempt to not make the night feel like a Big Thing, I hadn't bothered shopping for a new outfit, and that just added another layer of anxiety to the mix a few days beforehand: Do I own anything appropriate for this kind of scenario? Do I own anything that makes me look even vaguely appealing?

The day of, I rushed home from work, cracked open a bottle of wine, and frantically texted my friends for makeup tips. (When was the last time I'd worn eyeshadow?!?) My dress of choice was one I've had for probably four years at this point; the heels were shoes I cursed at last year's Christmas party when I could barely walk by the end of the night.

I inhaled a burrito, downed half the bottle of Chardonnay, and hopped into a Lyft.

The event was held at ICON nightclub, and this marked my first ever visit to a nightclub, period. I teetered up the steps, signed in, and was forced to slap on a name tag that I spent the rest of the night trying to smooth down. I'd known that another girl from work — the pitcher from our company softball team — was doing the auction, too, but it turned out that two more Wayfair people had volunteered, as well. I chatted with them for bit while I sipped my $14 (it's-for-charity, it's-for-charity) vodka tonic, and then forced myself to work the room.

We were encouraged to mingle and talk to guests before the auction, but at that point in the evening, it was nothing but a sea of fellow auctionees. I was impressed by the array of people who'd thrown their hats into the ring: heavyweight fighter, CEO, personal trainer, designer, police officer, engineer, performance artist (yup), marketing manager...the list went on. One thing I realized after talking to people was that most had brought along an entourage of friends and family who could be relied on to bid for them if things became dire.

Per usual, I was completely and utterly solo.

I was having a pretty good time talking with the others, joking (but secretly serious) that my goal was to go for at least $30. It was at that point that one guy, who had participated in the auction before, proceeded to tell me that the highest bid last year was $450.


If you know me, if you've read this blog, if you've ever talked to me for a significant amount of time, you know that I'm a total Scrooge McDuck. I don't pinch pennies; I cling to them with a death grip.

It's at this point that people usually chime in with "Yeah, but it's for charity..."

Valid. But the way my mind works? Something like $175 would be my big, all-out bid. Even if it's for a good cause. So, needless to say, I was pretty shocked.

At that point, guests had finally begun to arrive, so I said goodbye to my comrades and started circling the room, awkwardly trying to insert myself into conversations and introduce myself to people. I managed to talk to four non-participants before the bidding began and I was summoned to the stage, told that I'd be the second woman auctioned off. (What do you mean, second?!)

The stage was a tiny thing at the front of the club, and our hosts for the evening were two local radio personalities. (Thanks for dressing up, guys.) The first man up had a little choreographed number planned to the James Bond theme song, and bidding started at $100.

It started at $100?? There went my $30 goal.

Number One had bids pile up pretty quickly, and eventually sold for $300 (they went in increments of $50). One of the next guys opted for a PG-13 strip tease to earn his bids. The first female was an executive chef who loved yoga (theme of the night: all girls "love yoga") and she had a respectable number of bidders.

It all went much too quickly. It was my turn before I knew it.

The upside? There was no time for a full-blown panic attack. I clung to the stair rail and made my way onto the stage. The hosts had some fun with my profile, offering to the crowd that I was good at fixing things: "Guys, she can fix your toilet!" (Nope, really can't.) And the second they started the bidding, I had an offer — one of the people I talked to earlier in the evening! Two points for awkward socializing.

And then something crazy happened. Someone else put in a counter-bid. It was a guy in the back of the room, too far to tell if it had been one of the other people I'd met. But it set off a full-on bidding war.

If there's anything more surreal than watching perfect strangers offer to pay large sums of money just to spend an evening with you, it's this: watching a perfect stranger pay $650 to spend an evening with you. Also known as: the highest bid of the night.

I think the look on my face in that picture pretty much says it all.

So what have I learned from this experience?

#1. I will do almost anything for a good story.
#2. I should probably invest in different shoes.
#3. I'm actually pretty good at holding a conversation when forced to turn on the charm.
#4. I should avoid mentioning my love of yoga in any future dating profiles.

Am I pleased I was able to raise that much for Project Smile? Heck yes. Did I gain a little smug boost of confidence in that moment? Guilty. By the time the night was over, though, that had worn off and mostly I just felt a combination of hysterical laughter, confusion, and squirming uncomfortableness.

I don't all of a sudden think I'm hot stuff, and that guys are going to actually start noticing me now (though I did leave the club with a phone number). Realistically, I just happened to talk to the right person at the beginning of the night — someone who was willing to donate a significant amount of money to the charity no matter what — and I managed to pick a good conversation topic (books, you never let me down).

But at the very least, I learned this, too:

#5. I'm worth more than just $30.

Hanging up my Apron

by Lisa Lombardi in , ,

My first kiss was sprung on me by a boy I'd pined after my entire senior year of high school. We were saying goodbye before leaving for our respective colleges in the morning, and all of a sudden his mouth came out of nowhere, leaving me feeling both terrified and confused.

I did not appreciate it. At all.

My second kiss came from an older gentleman who was watching a Syracuse sporting event from one of the upper-level suites of the Carrier Dome, where I was stationed as the Suite Manager/Suite Liaison/Suite Bitch/whatever they called it. I was in charge of getting the food and drinks to the suite at the right times, and just generally making sure everyone had a good time and that the buffalo wings weren't cold.

It soon became clear that my duties also included making polite small talk with guests who couldn't care less about the game and just wanted to hang out by the bar the whole time. So I did. And when the game was over and the stadium began to empty out, this man walked over, bade me goodbye, laid an efficient smack on my lips, and pressed a $70 tip into the palm of my hand.

This, at least, I appreciated.

It makes sense that the food service industry has played a part in some of the more formative experiences in my life: I've held jobs ranging from bored hostess to harried bartender at various points in my life from the time I was 17.

It all started with a part-time hostessing gig at an Italian restaurant franchise in my town, something to fill my summer days and then, when school started again, the odd evening or two each week. I was in charge of walking patrons to their tables, pre-slicing endless loaves of crusty bed, and telling every group — no matter how small or large, no matter how busy we were or weren't — that it would probably be no more than a 15-minute wait. Okay, if we were really busy, then maybe I'd predict a 20-minute wait. Max.

First lesson of the food service industry: hostesses are full of shit. At least, the teenaged ones making only $7.75 an hour are.

Second lesson of the food service industry: be wary of restaurant owners whose idea of appropriate business attire is a quarter-zip fleece pullover that fully exposes their yeti-like chest hair. Give your two weeks' notice the second said owner tells you that you're "looking foxy today."

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I graduated to a waitressing gig at a Middle Eastern place in the middle of our downtown. Its central proximity didn't do much for its popularity, though; when friends and former classmates learned where I was working, their first response was usually "Where? Never heard of it." That should have been my first hint that I would be making no money that summer.

At the time, it had the look of a dingy cafe — nothing terrible, but nothing particularly appealing, either. The menu options averaged $9 and there was no liquor license, so I quickly realized that I would essentially be making only $2.75 an hour. My "tips" were like puddles in the desert: juuuuust enough to keep me going.

I was also the only person working there who didn't speak Lebanese, something the assistant manager — a tiny, somewhat shriveled old lady with a permanent frown — seemed to hold against me, if her constant glare and muttering whenever I asked a question were any indication.

The restaurant has since acquired a liquor license and undergone a full renovation, turning it into a swanky-looking place that's packed every time I've driven by during visits home. 

I bet the tips are amazing now.

I curse its name every time I see it.

In college, I worked a variety of odd jobs, but the one that stuck all four years was slaving away for the Carrier Dome's catering department. I started out as a runner, literally running giant platters of food from the kitchen to the suites just before the mad rush of halftime. I then worked the hotdog concession stands on the lawn before football games, waking up Saturday mornings while it was just barely light out and walking to the Dome through grass that had begun to frost over during the night. When it switched to basketball season, I mastered the cash register at the Italian Stand, handing over endless subpar chicken parm sandwiches and overpriced meatball subs.

I soon graduated to Suite Master, and then some sort of vague senior role during my final two years due mostly to the fact that I was reliable and had been around long enough to know the ins and outs of most of the jobs. I started working during the week, managing the meals for the different sports teams after practices or helping with special event dinners. I stocked the suites in between games, riding pallet carts filled with cases of beer down the empty halls of the stadium and having endless pointless conversations with my coworkers about how much homework we had, how we longed for the free time our peers wasted, which events we hated working the most.

It was expected to bitch about the job, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. There was something eerie and exciting about working in that giant space when no one else was around, and I secretly loved it. My meals were more often than not provided by the events I worked, or simply care of the friendly kitchen staff who would feed us leftovers even on days when there was nothing going on. If I could change anything about my college experience, I wouldn't have worked less — I would have chosen to simply study less.


So that's how I ended up in Boston, nearly three years ago, applying to work for a catering temp service that hired out servers and bartenders to events that needed the extra help. That's how I worked my first wedding that was marked by a hysterical bride and three gigantic performing drag queens. That's how I slowly got to know each of the million universities within the city limits, serving re-heated bacon-wrapped scallops and mini quiche by the trayful to both alumni and prospective students. That's how I had my first visit to the Cape (summer wedding) and attended the very first Boston Calling concert (beer garden).

When I finally landed a real, full-time job, I continued to bartend on the weekends because I have never been one to turn down extra money. Time went by. Raises and bonuses happened for the first time in my life. I got another new job. And I finally realized a month ago, with a weird jolt, that I really didn't need to keep bartending.

Maybe, instead, I should, like, try to have a social life? We'll see.

Either way, it's time to hang up my apron for good; pack away my bow and bistro ties, my scuffed black wingtips, and my now-dingy white Oxford.

Goodbye, my friends. You served me well. Probably better than I served anyone else.

A few more friendly tips learned from the food service industry:

Lesson #3: When they put out coffee at the end of an evening event, it's all decaf — no matter what the sign says.

Lesson #4: If the hors d'ouevres look like the frozen stuff you can buy at Costco, they probably are.

Lesson #5: You can become — and remain — a bartender without knowing anything about mixing drinks as long as you're charming and hard-working.

Lesson #6: Everyone should work a food service job at least once in their life. At worst, it will teach you humility and appreciation for others. At best, it will bless you with endless crazy stories and experiences, as well as some impressive biceps courtesy of all the heavy trays, racks of glassware, and cases of beer.





The Worst Game of Tag Ever

by Lisa Lombardi in

You may (I doubt it) have noticed that things have been decidedly quiet the past six (!) weeks around here. It's not because I've run out of things to fix around my apartment, or because I spontaneously won a trip to Australia (I wish). It's more just that I haven't had anything to talk about.

Or, more accurately, that I haven't had anything that I thought I could talk about.

This web site, and this blog, was created so I'd have some outlet to show my abilities for future career opportunities. And as a result, I felt like I could really only write about things that were professional (-ish); things that highlighted my strengths and interests. But the truth is that I've been dealing with one of my biggest weaknesses for the past couple months or so, and it's really tripping me up.

I've been playing tag with depression for more than half of my life at this point. I know the convention is to say that one "fights" depression or "struggles with" it, but I'm not really satisfied with either of those phrases. To fight suggests a level of courage and strength that I'm not worthy of. But to simply struggle makes me feel like a B-list horror movie actress, flailing to escape the grasp of her attacker.

No, depression is more like the most annoying, never-ending game of tag you've ever played. I never defeat depression. It is always with me, whether somewhere off in the distance or tapping me on the shoulder. It never really goes away; I just get better at outrunning and evading it.

I have no expectations that I could accurately convey to the inexperienced masses what this feels like (see Hyperbole and a Half's "Adventures in Depression" and "Depression Part Two" for the best examples I've ever come across). I keep going over it in my brain, and the best I can come up with to describe the experience is this:

Your life consists of you walking along an endless, floating dock. It rocks and moves, but it's fairly wide and a stable enough surface to stick to. When you add depression to the mix, whether because of a chemical imbalance or unfortunate life circumstances, that dock gets more and more narrow. And the water gets rougher. And it becomes more and more easy to fall off the edge.

No matter how good your balance is, it's only a matter of time before a swell knocks you overboard. And you can swim, but it takes everything from you — all of your concentration and energy. Meanwhile, life continues lobbing you with its expectations; there are responsibilities to juggle and people you don't want to let down. Everyone you talk to thinks they have the magical solution — oh, just do these five things, meet with these three complete strangers, relax and don't work so hard, work harder so things will change, go to the gym, go to church, fill out these forms A, D, and G. 

And all you can think is, "Can I stop drowning first?"

The day will come that you make it back to the dock, and that's when you realize that you're expected to pull yourself out, too. 

Anyone who's ever dove off the floating docks on the Charles River and has as terrible upper body strength as I do will understand the magnitude of this obstacle I'm talking about. It's really fucking hard to pull yourself back onto that dock, especially with the waves crashing over you, especially after you've been treading water for what feels like forever. So you just cling to the edge for a while, waiting to get back some of what you've lost. Waiting for the chance to pull yourself back up again.

That's kind of what this stage of depression feels like to me. You're not drowning, but you're not really living, either. It stops you from moving forward, and I've definitely felt stuck for the past few months.

For someone who thrives on taking action, accomplishing tasks, dreaming up projects, and just straight-up trying things, it's really jarring to lose any and all of my motivation. I've always had things that I didn't relish doing hukking my laundry two blocks to the laundromat, cleaning the bathroom, writing networking emails but they never felt both insurmountable and pointless at the same time. They were simply lines on my to-do list that I would inevitably check off and move past, nothing more. When depression tags me, everything feels impossible. I can barely function as a pleasant 28-year-old adult, much less tackle anything that's more than an absolute necessity.

So there have been no projects. Meals have gone from trying new recipes to heating up frozen trays of whatever in the microwave. I drag myself to the gym not for any sort of enjoyment, but with the hope that it will help me sleep better at night and maybe dissipate some of the frustration I feel about everything right now.

I don't want to end this on a downer note. Let me make one thing very clear: clinging to the edge of the dock is a lot better than just trying to keep your head above the water. And I make no guarantees, but I get the feeling that I will soon be able to haul myself up onto that dock without an ounce of grace, I'm sure. Expect a lot of flopping.

See you soon.