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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, good libations and surprisingly amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the point dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins later that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.