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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a brisk business. A wasted session was had by all. Good fare, fine drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about oral health. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women glide through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a common queue merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone exited, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.