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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Nice food, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, isn't it lads?”

One person smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.