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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present group were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Nice fare, nice libations and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to convey recognition of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not fault her.