How I Lied My Way Into Power Before I Could Legally Order a Vodka Soda
Proof that audacity beats qualifications every single time.
(psssss it’s me reading)
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Let me tell you about the time I lied about my age just so I could run restaurants, fire bartenders, and evade the police, all before I was legally allowed to order a vodka soda.
When I was nineteen, I pretended to be twenty-seven.
Yes, twenty-seven. Not twenty-one. Not twenty-two. Not a little white lie to scoot past a technicality. I skipped right over legal adulthood and planted myself firmly in “established professional” territory. Why? Because nineteen-year-old me looked around, saw a world that wasn’t going to hand her a seat at the table, and said: Fine. I’ll just forge my own damn chair and show up anyway.
And I sold it. I sold it so hard that I ended up running restaurants, bars, and a theater on the East Coast.
Most of the people who sat on the board of directors I reported to are now deceased. The businesses themselves have been shuttered for quite some time, so nobody’s left to be implicated, maybe except myself.
Of course, my reign wasn’t without hiccups. There were moments when the illusion wobbled, when furious bartenders, recently fired for stealing, decided the best way to get back at me was to march to a police officer and announce: “She’s lying about her age!”
The cops showed up, and I braced myself for collapse. Then, I walked away scot-free.
Because here’s the thing: the cops adored me. They never even asked to see my ID. I was nineteen, with a neat bun and a notepad, playing twenty-seven with such conviction that armed officers shrugged and let me go back to running the liquored establishments.
Think about that for a second. That’s not just audacity. That’s sorcery.
Now, let’s discuss my bosses. They were Army Special Forces veterans, which sounds glamorous until you realize what that means for employee training. They didn’t just teach me how to run venues; they broke me down like I was in boot camp.
They had this drill, pure psychological warfare disguised as “training.” I’d start at the front door of a restaurant and march in a straight line to the back, eyes locked on the exit. I wasn’t allowed to look around, not even a glance. But I was expected to notice everything.
The napkins that had dwindled down to two. The barstool leaning on a bad leg. The wood paneling scratched by some drunk’s wedding ring. A customer sliding their table three inches to the left.
When I hit the back alley, I had to yank out my notepad and list it all. Every flaw, every offense, every negative change in the room. If I missed even one detail? Back to the front door. Start over, again, and again. Until my legs ached and my pride cracked and I found myself crying in a broom closet, wondering if this was actually worth it.
And then, something shifted. Perhaps after a week of drills, my peripheral vision turned into a weapon. I could clock a missing coaster, a lipstick smear on a martini glass, and a drunk weaving toward the bathroom all in the same sweep, without ever breaking stride.
It was hell while I was in it, but it hardwired me. Now I walk into a space and instantly know what’s wrong before I’ve even thought about it. Which, honestly, is less of a “superpower” and more of a curse when you’re just trying to enjoy brunch.
Do I recommend this to anyone? Bending the law to achieve your goal? Absolutely NOT. Don’t lie about your age, don’t risk arrest, and definitely don’t put yourself in situations where your only escape depends on charisma and war-veteran-trained peripheral vision.
But, and this is the part that matters, I will never regret it.
I was a nineteen-year-old girl on the East Coast. No connections. No family money. No reason anyone should have taken me seriously. The only way I was going to get the job I wanted was to create a Sheridan big enough, bold enough, and old enough that the world had no choice but to believe her.
And I did it. Not because I was qualified. Not because I had experience. But because I refused to hear no.
The regular path isn’t always the right path. If you wait for the world to tell you you’re ready, you’ll be waiting forever. There will always be a credential you don’t have, an experience you’re missing, a box you haven’t checked.
So here’s what I want you to take away:
Send the pitch you’re scared to send.
Apply to the job you think you’re underqualified for.
Make the audacious ask.
The worst thing that happens is someone says no. And I promise you — that hurts a lot less than spending your life wondering what would’ve happened if you’d just had the nerve to try.
I wouldn’t be who I am today if I hadn’t marched into those venues at nineteen and pretended to be twenty-seven. It was reckless, it was insane, but it was also the crucible that shaped me.
That was then. These days, the battleground looks a little different. I’m not dodging bartenders or fooling cops anymore; now it’s just me, a laptop, and the constant negotiation between ambition and sanity. The drills have changed, but the chaos? Still alive and well. This week I worked, I went to the dog park with Shadow and Dino (a lot), and I questioned my sanity (a hobby at this point).
I also sent out some very ballsy pitches, the kind that made me laugh when I hit send, because who the hell do I think I am?
But then I remembered: the same girl who once lied about her age just to get the job she wanted. That’s who.
So yes, I recommend you do the same. Be legal, but be unreasonable. Be audacious. Because who knows who you might become?
Don’t wait for permission. Don’t wait until you’re “ready.” Don’t let “no” be the end of your story. I was nineteen, running venues with forged confidence and sheer nerve. You can do the thing you think you can’t do. You can apply, you can pitch, you can walk through fire.
And if anyone doubts you? Walk straight to the back door with your eyes forward, take notes with your peripheral vision, and keep achieving your goals.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
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