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Just before the festive season, I had an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The attending crowd were solely men, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice libations and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the point came for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women breeze through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.