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Just before the holidays, I had an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine libations and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. As expected, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, right boys?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not censure her.