It was supposed to be a three-minute task. I log on to the website to cancel my landline service (a term that may only be familiar to people of a certain age). Of course, the “Cancel Service” menu option does not exist, so I initiate a chat session.
Soon, I’m told, “You need to call customer service, between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. on weekdays. We need to verify your identity.”
The three minutes were up ten minutes ago. Life gets in the way. I call four days later.
It’s a battle between me and the phone tree. Miraculously, on the 11th attempt (I think), I’m connected to a human-sounding rep at an international call center.
She asks why I’m calling, and when I say “to cancel,” she assures me she’ll help me out, though she’s sorry to see me go. Then she proceeds to ask me verification questions. I don’t think the US Citizenship and Immigration Services vetted me this much when I became a naturalized citizen.
Finally, convinced that I was who I claimed to be, the games began.
The Bait
First, she tosses some carrots my way, hoping I’d bite.
“How about we offer you a promotional rate for 6 months to stay on the plan?”
“Not interested.”
“Do you want to subscribe to our home monitoring service? We could do a bundle and save you a lot of money.”
“No, thank you.”
This went on for a bit, until she presumably reached the end of the Bait section of the script. She switches to Tactic #2.
The Scare
“You’ll lose access to your call history and all voicemails.”
“That’s okay.”
“You’ll lose access to the phone number and all your contacts.”
“No problem.”
I was on minute 17 of the phone call with zero signs that the rep was going to resolve my issue.
My voice betrayed my rising frustration as I tried to interject her carefully laid-out line of questioning. Unfazed, she continued to read, robot-like from the script. I’d have had better luck interrupting a wall.
In all fairness, the rep was doing what she was trained to do, with no contrition whatsoever. I, on the other hand, was getting increasingly annoyed, especially when she responded to every one of my “No’s” with a patronizing “Ah, I understand.” Not understanding at all.
Eventually, 27 minutes into the call, we ran into a stalemate. She was, I assumed, at the end of her script, and I was nearing the end of my patience. Finally, she relented, reluctantly, agreeing to free me from the phone service, but not before letting me know I was making a bad decision I’d come to regret.
“I’ll take the chance.” I think quietly.
Somehow, I still remember my manners and manage to blurt out a curt “Thank you”.
“Don’t forget to fill out the survey,” I hear her say, as I hang up.
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m afraid they won’t roll back down.
***
Now, why did I subject you to a painstakingly detailed, mundane conversation? These sorts of shenanigans occur with alarming frequency in our lives, and we’re either blissfully unaware of how time-and energy-consuming they are or tend to dismiss such troubles as the “cost of doing business.”
When I signed up for a “cheap” phone service, I didn’t fully acknowledge the quality and service sacrifices I was making. Over time, those trade-offs became painfully apparent.
Behavioral economists call this Hyperbolic Discounting. It’s a cognitive bias: We tend to prioritize smaller, more immediate wins over larger ones by deeply discounting the larger future inconvenience. This is the only reason free trials of any kind are economically viable for the organizations that offer them.
In the global, consumerist world we live in, the reality is clear: There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Ever.
Many products and services appear to be trivially inexpensive upfront. But once you factor in the cost of ownership—the wasted time, the energy drain, the stress, the friction, the maintenance, the endless hassles—you realize you’re paying a very real price for anything that seems to be free or cheap at first glance.
Ultimately, finding the balance between what you want and what you’re willing to pay—whether in dollars or hours—is a personal decision. The surest way to stress and suffering is expecting to have it all.
Personally, I’m learning the only real answer to the problem is to consume less. To say no more often.
We don’t need seven different streaming subscriptions, or the thirteen almost-identical black shirts, or the umpteen number of pots and pans cluttering our kitchen shelves. What we do need is to limit the number of friction points.
More stuff has never equated to more happiness. It never will.