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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter started about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an unpleasant variation, right chaps?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t fault her.