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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good beverages and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the moment dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any advanced community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a place. Two more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.