Last night I was somewhere—that somewhere will remain a secret because I like to be mysterious and otherworldly. While at that somewhere, I watched people. Most particularly, I watched couples—most of whom were married or I will pretend they are married because I’m going to cheat (see below) and make them all married since this is “Scenes from a Marriage” day and it fits my purposes. Dang. Alas, no, I cannot cheat—some were married and some were not. Perhaps some that wore wedding bands were married, but to someone else, then well, then they’d be the cheaters not me. Ha. I digress.
At one point in the evening, seven women walked into the women’s bathroom: one man walked into the men’s bathroom. A bare near-two minutes later, three women walked into the women’s bathroom: no men went into the men’s bathroom. Three minutes later, four women squeezed into the women’s bathroom (how did they all fit?): one man walked into the men’s bathroom. Do you see a pattern here?
Soon, separately, the two men who’d been in the men’s bathroom emerged, nice and emptied of any urinary demands (I like that! Urinary demands! How clever I am!) and stood waiting for their partners to return to them. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Do the math: within five minutes, two men entered the men’s bathroom, one at a time, and then exited one at a time. In the women’s bathroom, fourteen women mashed into the three-stalled women’s bathroom—and, within that same five minutes, none exited. Huhn.
Here is what else I knew. I’ll be a delicately indelicate:
The two men entered, separately. Each went straight to the urinary receptacle. No wait. The men were wearing suits. Those suits had pants. Those pants had zippers. Those zippers could be unzipped, whereas the urinary apparatus is withdrawn, thereof depositing the liquid into the receptacle, and then the urinary apparatus is tucked away, zipper zipped, done (and wash? Not wash? I hope wash, but who knows). Leave bathroom.
However, the women were in all their finery. Long slinky slippery dresses that shimmered and shimmied. There was that long line of women where each waited her turn, one after another. There were dresses to finagle out of the way. There were undies and/or pantyhose (if worn- personally I hate pantyhose and wear them only under the strictest of circumstances), and then it’s fiddle-adjust-pullup/down-sit(or hover as I do)-deposit liquid in receptacle-unroll-wad-swipe-stand-pulldown/up-flush(sometimes with foot)-adjust-exit stall-wait to get to sink to wash-dry-prettify in front of the mirror–lipstick to replenish, hair to pat or tuck back into chignons, bodices to adjust, spangles to re-spangle, and lastly, wade back through the waiting women to finally exit the bathroom where partner has been waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.
By time the woman gets to the bathroom and out, the event is near over, or the dinner is cold, or the theater lights are flashing a third warning, or the partner has forgotten you and has moved and is flirting with the woman who was first in line, or the woman gives up and stays the event in agony of un-emptiedness. I have even heard tales of women entering the bathroom never to be seen again. Her partner stands waiting, waiting, waiting to this day, waiting.