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Just before Christmas, I encountered an unusual situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The present crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine fare, nice beverages and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. As expected, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is limited to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.