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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice food, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced community would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not blame her.