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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not relevant. The attending crowd were solely men, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good cuisine, nice beverages and surprisingly humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence ensued. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.