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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Good fare, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A female glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.