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Just before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Good fare, fine libations and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, doesn’t it lads?”

One person grinned, a second appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.