Marrying an old bachelor is like buying second-hand furniture.

The modern American author of wit and wisdom, H. Jackson Brown, Jr., whose little maxims of life have often been handed down as pearls for daily living, once declared: “Marrying an old bachelor is like buying second-hand furniture.” At first, the words strike with humor, a jest meant to bring laughter. Yet behind the laughter lies an image sharp and evocative, teaching us about the nature of relationships, about expectation, and about the realities of joining lives with those who have lived long in solitude. The metaphor of second-hand furniture is not meant to demean, but to remind us that those who come to marriage later in life carry with them the marks, the polish, and the wear of their years.

Second-hand furniture is not without value—it may carry richness, character, and history. Yet it is not untouched; it bears the scratches of time, the dents of experience, the impressions of those who have used it before. So too with the old bachelor. He brings wisdom and independence, but also habits firmly set, perhaps inflexible ways of living, perhaps scars of loneliness or missed opportunities. To marry such a man is to accept not a blank page, but a manuscript already half-written. One must be ready to embrace both the strength and the wear, the charm and the creak of age.

We see this truth reflected in history. Consider the marriage of George Washington to Martha Custis. Washington was not an “old bachelor,” yet he married later than many, and Martha, a widow, brought with her children and the memory of another union. Their marriage was not the pristine, untouched youth of first love, but rather a joining of lives already seasoned by experience. Yet it became one of the strongest partnerships in American history. Their story shows us that while “second-hand furniture” may not be flawless, it can become the very pillar upon which households and nations rest.

Brown’s humor, then, hides a wisdom both practical and tender. He reminds us that marriage is not the pursuit of perfection, but the acceptance of reality. To marry an old bachelor is not to acquire something new and polished, but something proven, tested, marked by time. For some, these marks may be seen as flaws; for others, they may be seen as character. The key lies in whether one can cherish the dents as much as the shine, whether one can value the story as much as the surface.

The deeper lesson is that all people, whether young or old, come to marriage with history. The idea of untouched perfection is but an illusion. Every man and woman carries with them scars of childhood, habits of youth, triumphs and failures of the past. In this sense, all are “second-hand furniture.” The task of marriage is not to demand perfection, but to polish with love, to mend with patience, to cherish what is given, and to build upon it something enduring.

Thus, Brown’s playful metaphor carries a truth for every generation: if you choose to wed someone later in life, know that you marry not only the person, but also their habits, their routines, their memories. Do not seek to erase these things, but to weave them into the new fabric of your shared life. And if you marry young, remember that time will mark you both, that the shine of youth will fade, but the deeper grain of character will remain.

Practical wisdom flows from this: approach marriage not as a transaction for flawless beauty, but as an act of reverence for the life and story of another. Honor the scratches, for they tell of survival. Value the dents, for they reveal endurance. Whether your partner is a youthful flame or a seasoned bachelor, remember that love is not about what is new, but about what can endure through time.

So let the words of H. Jackson Brown, Jr. endure as a teaching clothed in jest: marriage is not the pursuit of the perfect, but the embrace of the real. Whether you marry first-hand or second-hand “furniture,” treat it with care, polish it with love, and it will serve you faithfully all your days.