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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The present party were solely men, which is relevant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Nice cuisine, good drink and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to get some brotherly banter going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.