On the 15th day without internet, frustration had reached a boiling point for my partner Rebecca and me. Our connection had been down since two weeks earlier, causing significant disturbances as we both depend heavily on home internet for our jobs. By now, the financial impact was glaring; not only had we lost over $600 in wages, but commuting costs to use wifi at public spaces were adding up too.

Each day, I found myself spending at least an hour on the phone with our ISP's customer service, encountering different representatives every time. Each one offered a unique "solution" or reason for our connectivity woes, but none bore fruit. Promises of urgent technician visits flopped—once, Rebecca even canceled important appointments to stay home for a technician who never arrived. Polite and patient, I thanked each representative, clinging to hope that maybe this time, they'd resolve our issue.

On day 15, the conversation took a sharp turn. Yet another rep assured me, with baseless confidence, that our issues would be resolved by the next day, mentioning another technician would visit. Frustrated and skeptical, I pressed for real assurance. The rep, clearly flustered, insisted there was nothing more to do but wait. Refusing to accept this, a heated exchange ensued, culminating in my insistence on speaking to his manager. After a lengthy discussion, I secured a promise: if our internet wasn't fixed by the next day, our bill would be waived. The next day, miraculously, our service was restored and has been stable since.

Reflecting on the ordeal, I realize despite my frustrations, I might have been too harsh on the phone. Having been a customer service rep myself, I understand the emotional toll of the job. Most of the day, you're bombarded with grievances that you have minimal power to rectify immediately, often constrained by company policies. In light of this, I generally strive to treat service workers with kindness and empathy.

Considering how I tackled the situation, I wonder how my actions would have been perceived in a different context. Imagine this scenario playing out on a reality TV show, where every emotion and reaction is magnified to entertain an audience. Would viewers cheer for my persistence, or criticize me for my aggressiveness? Reality shows thrive on conflict and resolution—they might portray me as a hero standing up against poor service, or as a villain losing his cool. It's intriguing yet unsettling to think how media can twist everyday frustrations into dramatic entertainment.

Would amateurs perceive my actions differently had they been framed by the dramatic lens of reality television?

How do you handle service delays?