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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an unusual situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good beverages and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, 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 was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks later that chat tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any advanced community would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.