We’d like to begin by saying: finally. Finally, someone has recognized dating for what it is—not a whimsical journey of self-discovery, but a part-time job with inconsistent hours, questionable management, and absolutely no benefits.

Because according to a recent news story, a region in Japan is now offering singles actual money to use dating apps in an effort to address the country’s declining birth rate. Real money. Government-backed. Taxpayer-adjacent flirting.

Yes please.

If you’ve ever spent $18 on a drink you didn’t want while listening to someone explain their “startup idea” (it’s always an app, it’s never a good app), you already understand: dating has overhead. There are transportation costs. Emotional labor. The mental gymnastics of deciding whether “had a great time :)” means they liked you or are politely releasing you back into the wild. We have been out here doing this work pro bono.

So when we hear that someone, somewhere, is being compensated to swipe, we don’t ask questions. We update our résumés.

Unfortunately—and there is always unfortunately—the program is aimed at people who are looking for serious relationships, marriage, and, eventually, children. Which is beautiful. Noble, even. But it does mean that the rest of us, who are just trying to find someone who doesn’t say “let’s circle back” on a date, may not be the ideal candidates.

It’s not that we don’t believe in love. We do. We just don’t necessarily believe it’s waiting for us on a Tuesday night over shared hummus with a man who refers to himself as “low-key a big deal at work.” We are, at this stage of life, more interested in a good story than a shared mortgage.

Still, it’s hard not to imagine what could be if this policy expanded globally. Would we approach dating with more enthusiasm if we were, say, on the clock? Would we reply to “hey” with the energy of someone earning a stipend? Would we finally agree to that second date, not because we’re intrigued, but because rent is due?

We’d like to think we’d rise to the occasion. We’d become efficient. Strategic. A little bit unstoppable. But deep down, we know ourselves. We would still find a way to cancel plans, still overanalyze a text, still come home and debrief with friends like we just returned from a minor but emotionally significant war.

Because the truth is, no amount of government funding can make dating feel less like… dating.

Which brings us to a radical alternative. If what you actually want is to meet people, have fun, and not feel like you’re auditioning for a long-term role you didn’t apply for, there is another option.

Join OBC.

We’re not going to pay you to show up. We wish we could. We really do. But what we can offer is a way to meet people without the weird pressure, the forced chemistry, or the looming question of “where is this going?” hanging over every interaction. It’s social, it’s low-stakes, and—crucially—it costs less than two drinks at a bar.