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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The attending group were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Fine fare, good beverages and remarkably entertaining tales about oral health. As expected, the point dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned 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 considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a common queue merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Well, this is an irksome change, right chaps?”

One person grinned, another appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.