I feel about airplanes the way I feel about diets. It seems to me

In her sharp and witty remark, Jean Kerr once said, “I feel about airplanes the way I feel about diets. It seems to me that they are wonderful things for other people to go on.” With humor as her blade and insight as her shield, Kerr struck at a timeless truth about human nature — our resistance to discomfort and our tendency to admire discipline from afar while avoiding it ourselves. Yet beneath the laughter lies a profound reflection on choice, self-awareness, and authenticity, one that echoes the wisdom of the ancients: that not all paths are meant for all souls, and that wisdom begins when we understand our own temperament.

In the world of Jean Kerr, the playwright and essayist known for her wit in the mid-20th century, humor was her way of revealing the quiet contradictions of modern life — especially those faced by women navigating society’s endless expectations. By comparing airplanes to diets, she unmasked the absurdity of constantly striving toward ideals that may bring neither joy nor freedom. Both airplanes and diets promise transformation: one offers the thrill of flight, the other the dream of perfection. Yet Kerr reminds us that not every form of progress suits every traveler. Sometimes, what liberates one person may confine another. Her jest, though light, carries the weight of self-knowledge.

This sentiment has its roots deep in the soil of ancient wisdom. The Greek philosopher Epicurus, often misunderstood as a hedonist, taught that pleasure is not in indulgence but in the art of discernment — knowing which desires are natural and which are unnecessary burdens. To board every passing airplane or embark on every new diet is to chase illusions rather than live wisely. Kerr’s humor mirrors Epicurus’s quiet philosophy: seek not what dazzles, but what brings peace. For the wise understand that freedom is not found in imitation, but in choosing one’s own way of living.

Consider also the story of Diogenes of Sinope, the Cynic philosopher who lived in a barrel and mocked the vanities of society. When Alexander the Great offered to grant him any wish, Diogenes replied, “Stand out of my sunlight.” He needed nothing that the world praised — not wealth, not power, not admiration. Like Kerr, he found humor in humanity’s endless striving for what they did not truly need. In her jest about airplanes and diets, Kerr’s spirit aligns with Diogenes’: she, too, exposes the folly of chasing after comfort disguised as virtue. For what good is a flight that terrifies you, or a diet that steals your joy?

Yet there is compassion within Kerr’s satire. She does not condemn those who fly or diet — she simply chooses honesty. Her statement reminds us that authenticity is not rebellion, but clarity. To admit what we do not enjoy, and to live accordingly, requires courage in a world that pressures us to conform. Too often, we live by imitation — dieting because others do, flying because it seems sophisticated — forgetting that peace comes not from conformity, but from contentment with one’s nature. Her laughter, therefore, is not ridicule but liberation: a gentle invitation to live by one’s own rhythm.

The lesson we draw from Kerr’s words is timeless: know thyself. The ancients inscribed it upon temple walls; Jean Kerr wrapped it in humor. Do not walk every path simply because it is praised. The disciplined life, the adventurous life, the simple life — each has its beauty, but not every beauty belongs to you. To live wisely is to discern which struggles are worth embracing, and which are merely burdens borrowed from others. It is better to live in harmony with your truth than to soar briefly on borrowed wings.

So, let these words linger as both laughter and lesson: the wise do not envy the journeys of others; they honor their own. If airplanes thrill you, take flight; if they unsettle you, stay grounded. If dieting sharpens your spirit, follow it; if it dims your joy, release it. For the art of living is not found in doing what everyone praises — it is found in doing what keeps your soul at peace. In this, Jean Kerr joins the chorus of the ancients, teaching through wit what sages taught through solemnity: that the highest freedom is the courage to be oneself.