🔗 Share this article

Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The attending party were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the moment dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting 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 line were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.