Marrying a man is like buying something you've been admiring for

“Marrying a man is like buying something you’ve been admiring for a long time in a shop window. You may love it when you get it home, but it doesn’t always go with everything else in the house.” Thus spoke Jean Kerr, the wry and perceptive essayist of the twentieth century, whose humor gleamed with the quiet wisdom of one who had studied both love and life. Beneath her jest lies an ancient truth: that marriage, though born in the glow of admiration, must eventually meet the realities of daily living. What appears beautiful from afar—polished, perfect, and desirable—may reveal its flaws, not because it has changed, but because life, in its fullness, exposes what the dreamer could not see. Kerr’s words remind us that love is not only an act of desire, but an act of adaptation, where beauty must learn to live alongside imperfection.

The origin of this insight comes from Kerr’s own world—a mid-century America that adored romance but was often unprepared for the mundane work of commitment. As a writer and wife of playwright Walter Kerr, she understood both the charm and the challenge of long partnership. Her humor, gentle yet piercing, emerged from the observation that the idealized vision of love—the “shop window” view—is only the beginning. In marriage, the object of admiration must fit into the living fabric of one’s existence: one’s habits, values, rhythms, and vulnerabilities. What once stood apart as perfect must now coexist with the chaos of the ordinary. To truly love, one must learn not only to cherish what is admired, but to make peace with what is real.

Kerr’s metaphor speaks also of the illusion of perfection—that dangerous dream which so often blinds the heart. The “shop window” glitters with presentation; it hides the cracks, the dust, the cost. How often do men and women, bewitched by appearances, believe they have found the flawless companion, only to discover later that love demands patience more than passion, humor more than harmony? Kerr’s wit does not mock marriage—it rescues it from fantasy. She reminds us that a union built on admiration alone is fragile, for admiration fades when tested by proximity. True affection is born not in the glow of the shop window, but in the steady light of shared life—the laughter in imperfection, the forgiveness in disappointment, the endurance of affection after the sparkle fades.

In the pages of history, we may see this truth reflected in the marriage of Napoleon Bonaparte and Joséphine de Beauharnais. Napoleon, intoxicated by Joséphine’s charm and elegance, adored her from afar with the fever of obsession. Yet once married, the realities of temperament, ambition, and distance wore away at that initial passion. He, a conqueror of nations, could not conquer the delicate balance of domestic life. The object of his admiration no longer fit the rest of his world—the empire he sought to build, the discipline he demanded, the legacy he desired. Their love, magnificent in its beginning, fractured under the weight of incompatible truths. It was, as Kerr might have said, an exquisite purchase that did not “go with everything else in the house.”

And yet, Kerr’s words are not meant to dishearten—they are a call to wisdom. She teaches that the success of marriage lies not in finding a perfect match, but in creating harmony from difference. The “house” of one’s life is filled with memories, habits, and dreams; a new love must be woven into that tapestry, not merely admired as decoration. The wise do not despair when love seems ill-fitting—they adjust, they learn, they blend. For love that survives is not static; it evolves, softens, and reshapes itself to dwell peacefully within the realities of two imperfect lives joined together.

Her metaphor also speaks to the nature of maturity in love. To remain in the glow of first admiration is the instinct of youth; to stay when the glow fades is the strength of the soul. Marriage, Kerr suggests, requires humor—the divine ability to laugh at oneself and one’s partner, to accept that what once dazzled now sometimes irritates, and yet to love all the same. The wise couple learns to rearrange the “house” so that what once clashed begins to complement; they learn to find beauty not in perfection, but in belonging.

So, my listener, take from Jean Kerr’s jest this enduring lesson: do not worship the illusion of love—work for its truth. When you fall in love, see clearly; when you marry, adapt gracefully. Admiration may open the door, but acceptance keeps it open. The thing you have “brought home” may not fit perfectly, but if your heart is generous, if your laughter is kind, you will find that love can transform even the most mismatched pieces into harmony.

For in the end, marriage is not a display, but a dwelling. It is not made to impress the world, but to shelter two souls who are learning, day by day, how to live—and to love—together. And in that home, imperfect though it may be, the truest beauty is not in what fits, but in what endures.