Pretty is a word we use to describe something nice that catches our eye. It could be ornate, or expensive or something colorful and bright and sticks to the back of our minds. Pretty makes our heads turn.
Pretty is a nice word. I use it all the time.
But Pretty ends there.
Pretty is a vase that breaks. Pretty are curtains that turn yellow with time. Pretty is a face that is just what it is, pretty.
But Pretty doesn’t last.
You would never call the wide expanse of lush green fields filled with glorious golden daffodils, the formidably grand wall of mountains that scaled to the skies or the bleeding paints of a sunset sky Pretty. You would never stand on the top of a mountain overlooking the depths of a valley with meandering rivers, or watch in awe falling snow, pristine, on a carpet of white powder, or a night filled with millions of glittering diamonds… pretty. It would be scandalous to do so.
You would never call a woman wrinkled in her years, mellowed with time, filled with wisdom and aged by grace, pretty. You would never call her who has woken up tired from all the hours at work being pressured and yelled at and doing the chores at home and just wanting to sleep, a shoulder to lean on or arms to hold her, pretty. You would never call her who has not had her hair done or makeup on because she’s been busy serving other people, pretty.
Don’t get me wrong: there is nothing wrong with pretty. But Prettiness is a… (gasp) superficial quality that cannot be sustained. And there are many other things a woman ought to be given credit for other than being pretty.
You would only look at the twinkle in her languid eyes, open for a second looking into yours but closing again because of fatigue, and call her Beautiful.
Or not.
Anything but pretty.