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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good drink and surprisingly humorous tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern community would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, right boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.