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Just before the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The attending group were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, good libations and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any modern culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, right boys?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not censure her.