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Shortly before the holidays, I had an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, good beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

Someone smiled, someone else appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a spot. Two more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not blame her.