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I mean, I’m not Spartacus.
Bear with me. There’s a point to this.
Recently, my 8-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter asked to watch a movie. It’s summertime. Daytime movies are par for the course when there aren’t camps, clubs, and pool outings on deck. But they have weird movie tastes sometimes, so helping them find something On Demand or on one of our streaming services can be an adventure.
I expected requests for any number of animated films, especially the first three editions in the Toy Story franchise since my parents, who will be visiting soon, plan to take the kiddos to see the fourth installment. But nope. My kids did what they do and confounded me by asking for “Paul Blart: Mall Cop.”
The next day was free of planned-activity, so they asked to watch the sequel, “Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2.” They had seen both several times. They love them. I don’t. Or I didn’t. My beef wasn’t with Kevin James. He won me over in Hitch. I generally enjoy his self-effacing humor. No gripes with physical comedy either. I’m a huge fan of the late John Ritter.
The truth is until recently, I haven’t been able to articulate my distaste for Paul Blart because, all kidding aside, the films made me look at myself at a depth I didn’t want to go.
No, I’m not a security guard in a mall or anywhere else. I’m a writer. I spent more than 15 years as a newspaper journalist before moving into public and media relations and other elements of external communications. I’ve had a good run, but over the past nine months or so, I hit a couple of speed bumps that made me doubt myself professionally. We’ve all seen this movie. The mountain climber who falls and then questions whether he’s worthy any longer to even walk up a flight of stairs. The runner who trips at the finish line and then doubts he can ever again put one foot in front of the other fast enough. The placekicker who misses the game-winning or tying field goal with just seconds on the clock. The Paul Blart who washes out of a police academy.
It doesn’t take much. A job resignation mandated by a family move. Realizing just weeks into another job that it is not only outside your wheelhouse, but it may not even be on the same planet as your wheelhouse. Next thing you know, you’re dusting off your resume and running down a checklist of interviewing dos and don’ts.
That brings us back to Paul Blart and my recent epiphany: Sure, Blart is goofy and loveable. Those features are a distraction to the sobering reality of his career: He’s actually not bad at his job. In fact, he’s good.
Think about it. His job is to monitor the mall, keep shoppers safe and keep potential bad actors at bay or in check. He does all that pretty well. Blart’s intentions are never in doubt. His people skills are solid if a little awkward. He thinks quickly on his feet and comes up with innovative solutions to stymie bad guys. In spite of his appearance, he even has the physical stamina and strength to take down the baddies. And his deductive skills, while a bit meandering, are spot on.
The joke, the eternal punchline, the terrifying thing is that while Blart checks all the boxes for job performance, he seems stuck.
And that is a scary, scary feeling. As I watched those films, brooding while my kids cackled and my dog raised his head just long enough to express disgust with all of us before going back to sleep, I saw myself in Blart and that terrified me.
I’ve been a good writer. I’ve been a good editor. I’ve been a good PR counsel and media relations and thought leadership guide. I’ve been a good leader, but I’ve not been a great fit everywhere
I’ve worked, and that can really mess with your head, especially if a job comes accessorized with a colleague who, figuratively, whispers in one ear, like the devil on your shoulder, that you’re weak or otherwise defective.
Doubt in the workplace is torment. You doubt yourself in one area, and that doubt acts like a leech, sucking confidence from the other parts of your psyche.
“Doubt” me? Follow this scenario: I generally find that I’m not a great fit in a position I thought I’d love. Next, I’m sitting in a meeting where I make a suggestion that one executive loves and another executive poo-poos because I didn’t first fill out the requisite pink form requesting permission to make a suggestion. I’m kidding — about the form being pink. Now, my imagination’s running amok, and I’m wondering if my suit’s ill-fitting. Maybe it’s my voice, my accent. Maybe I don’t make enough eye contact. Maybe it’s ’cause I’m a black man who’s pretty content with himself and not “compliant” enough. Maybe it’s that I pushed back on a document, a bit of work product, and insisted that the way it was written and edited was correct and shouldn’t be further altered. Maybe that was too defiant a tone? Or maybe I’m not as good as I thought I was.
I ran this by a buddy who, after begging me to not try my hand at film criticism, conceded I might be onto something in my anti-Blartitude — that folks who have the skills and track record and therefore have earned a shot at something more, never get that shot.
But, he said, it’s just as likely that I doubted myself because I’ve been accustomed to winning — working hard to win, never getting it easily — and suddenly, in a relatively short period of time, I found myself in a situation where I checked off all the boxes but still didn’t seem to fit.
He may be right. If he is, it changes my perspective on Paul Blart. He’s not stuck. He’s giving 100 percent where he fits and where he’s comfortable. Really, he’s thriving, because he’s figured out that the “more” he wants a shot at doesn’t have to be fancier, bigger, etc.
Here’s my happy ending: I’m in a great place now, professionally. My experience is appreciated, and I’m appreciated, warts and all.
I now salute the Paul Blarts of the world — every person who has the skills, who knows he’s good, who wants a shot, who’s earned a shot…who isn’t getting that shot, but is so comfortable and confident in his own skin that he’s crushing it, wherever he works and whatever he does.
If this were a game of pickup hoops, I’d want that person on my team. When everyone else is talking a lot of yack about what they could do if they really wanted to or lying courtside, wheezing and complaining that it’s too hot to continue playing, that guy will still be on fire. In his ‘80s-era too-shorts, Chucks, knee socks and matching head- and wristbands, that guy will always be the one dribbling the ball, hopping like a kangaroo in a bounce house…on meth, ready to keep running the court, urging all to get up and keep it moving. Should the opportunity ever arise for him to be the star he’ll take it without hesitation. And when that happens, no one will question whether he’ll put in the hard work.
May we all have a little Paul Blart in us.
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Paul Blart: Mall Cop – watch the trailer
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This post was previously published on Medium and is republished with permission from the author.
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Photo credit: Screenshot from video by Sony Pictures Entertainment