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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome variation, right lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to express an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not fault her.