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Just before the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good fare, good libations and remarkably humorous stories about dentistry. As expected, the moment came for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, 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 should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.