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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, nice drink and remarkably entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the time came for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

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 surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an irksome change, isn't it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.