In the run-up to the holidays, I had an unusual incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not relevant. The present party were solely men, which proves to be relevant.
The venue was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the time dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.
Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.
For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?
Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.
There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.
On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that discussion tends to begin.
Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m researching research on this.
Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”
A fellow grinned, someone else looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.
A female wafted out of the next-door facility, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”
Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.
A tech strategist with over a decade of experience in digital transformation and AI-driven solutions across European markets.