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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, right lads?”

A fellow chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. Two more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

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