A Genuinely Revelatory Experience in the Public House Restroom Line
Just before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were solely men, which is key.
A Novel Scenario
The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the time arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.
Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.
A Sample of Everyday Life
For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?
In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.
The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat
There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.
Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to break out.
If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.
Brotherly Banter in the Procession
Returning to my line, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”
A fellow smiled, someone else appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.
A Knowing Exchange
A woman emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time.”
Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not censure her.
