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Shortly before the holidays, I had an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, good drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone came out, zipping up. The line shuffled up a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.