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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A handy measure for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.