An Revelatory Incident in the Bar Toilet Procession

In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, nice drink and remarkably amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t fault her.