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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present party were solely men, which is significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Good food, nice drink and remarkably amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant difference, isn't it lads?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone exited, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not fault her.