Why Do We Keep Paying Ridiculous Fees for Simple Things?

The hidden cost of being tired, busy, and just wanting things to work

Note: This post was originally written in May 2025.

“Three hundred forty-three dollars,” the locksmith says, not even blinking. He's got the kind of Eastern European accent that makes you feel like you're in a John Wick sequel, except instead of assassins and gold coins, it's just you, a busted mailbox, and a rapidly draining checking account.

I stare at him, then at the mailbox, then back at him. I would like to know if the key comes with a complimentary condo. Instead, I nod, because what the hell else am I going to do? The management company doesn't keep spare keys “for security reasons,” which, in 2025, apparently means “so we can charge you a kidney for basic access to your own mail.”

I pay. Of course, I pay.

The Pattern Emerges

This isn’t my first rodeo with absurdly expensive, low-stakes emergencies. Last week, a different locksmith—also with an Eastern European accent, as the Slavic Locksmith Mafia is apparently real—quoted me TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS to generate two new emergency keys for my 2009 Mazda3¹, then "generously" dropped the price to $750 after a bait-and-switch routine that would make a used car salesman blush. But oops, charged me $900 anyway! Oh, well.

I googled the real price later: $300, maybe $400 tops.

I didn’t pay him. Not because I suddenly grew a spine, but because I literally didn’t have the money. I'm “between jobs,” which is a polite way of saying “unemployed and stress-eating peanut butter straight from the jar.”

So I called the Better Business Bureau, which is like sending a strongly worded email to the ocean. I'm still waiting for a response.

But here's the kicker: I am, by nature, a researcher. I will spend three hours reading reviews for a $10 app, weighing pros and cons, and then ultimately not buying it because I can't decide between “Pro” and “Plus.”

Yet when it comes to a $343 mailbox key, I just hand over my credit card. Why? Because I'm tired. Because sometimes the cost of fighting is higher than the cost of giving in.

The Trust Tax

There's a trust tax built into all of this. The management company doesn't trust its own employees, so no spare keys. The locksmith charges $343 because he knows I don't trust myself to do it myself. Everyone is covering their ass, and I'm left holding the bill.

I'm not sure when security became so expensive—and so damn inconvenient. I have a password manager with more entries than my high school yearbook. A key fob for the building, a separate key for the mailbox, a code for the condominium complex, and face ID for my phone. I'm one retinal scan away from living in a Mission: Impossible movie, except the only thing I'm protecting is Bed Bath & Beyond coupons and jury duty summons.

My mom, in classic Chinese-mom fashion, immediately wants to know why I didn't just “do it myself” ever since she once fixed our VCR with a chopstick and a rubber band. "You pay how much? For key? Next time, call me. I show you YouTube."

She's not wrong. There probably is a YouTube video.

But there's also a part of me that knows I would watch the tutorial, buy the incorrect lock, strip the screws, and end up paying $500 to fix the damage.

The Convenience Premium

I am, apparently, the world's easiest mark for the “convenience premium.” Last year, it was the $89 “diagnostic fee” for a Wi-Fi technician to tell me my router was unplugged. The year before that, $175 to "reset" a garage door opener—which means pressing a button labeled RESET. (I could have done it myself, if only I'd been born with the mystical ability to read labels instead of the ability to recite the entire Animaniacs theme song from memory.)

Here's the real kicker: I don't even get mad at the locksmith. I get angry at myself. For losing the key. For not having a spare. For not being the kind of person who keeps a spreadsheet of serial numbers and emergency contacts. For being tired, broke, scatter-brained, and—let's be honest—a little bit lazy. It's easier to be angry at myself than to admit that the system is rigged.

The Real Cost

Maybe that’s the actual price of security in 2025: not just the money, but the slow erosion of trust—in institutions, in experts, in yourself. Every time you pay a ridiculous fee for something that should be simple, you lose a little faith that the world makes sense. You start to wonder if you’re the problem, or if everything is just a little bit broken and nobody wants to admit it.

And yet, I continue to play the game. Because what’s the alternative?

I could DIY it, spend a weekend watching YouTube tutorials, buy tools I'll never use again, and inevitably make things worse. Or I could call in the pros, pay through the nose, and get back to my regularly scheduled existential crisis. Either way, I lose time, money, or both.

These little humiliations—these nickel-and-dime disasters—are just part of the deal now. They're the price of admission for adulthood, or at least for pretending you've got your shit together long enough to fool your neighbors. Maybe the real trick isn't avoiding them, but learning to laugh about them, to turn them into stories, to wring a little meaning (and perhaps a tax deduction) out of the mess.

The Takeaway

So if you're reading this and nodding along—if you've ever paid too much for something stupid, or felt like the world is just a little bit stacked against you—know that you're not alone. We're all out here, fumbling with keys and passwords and half-remembered PINs, just trying to keep the wheels from falling off.

I'll be here, hiding my new $343 mailbox key in the world's least obvious place—inside the box of takeout menus—because no one's ever going to look there. Not even me, probably. In six months, I'll be standing in front of the mailbox again, patting my pockets, cursing softly, and wondering if I can Venmo the locksmith in installments.

(And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start watching those YouTube tutorials my mom keeps sending me. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.)

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What's the most ridiculous tech-related fee you've ever paid? A $343 mailbox key? A $1,200 car lockout? Or that $9.99 monthly subscription for an app you forgot you had. Tell me your story—misery loves company.

1. Oh, Jeezus. Don’t ask.