Women Spend a Lot of Time as Ladies-In-Waiting

Men wonder about ladies, and they wonder about ladies’ rooms. They seem to have conjured up some exotic nether world to which we females slip away and share intimate secrets. All this, probably, because they’ve caught a glimpse of those couches through the door.

The truth is, right down to the phone numbers and bad poetry, women’s rooms resemble men’s rooms a great deal. We just have a great deal longer to look at them, which is probably why we get an occasional couch. A small portion of us do use ladies’ rooms as an escape or a place to confer during the proverbial “powdering.” But most of us are just ladies-in-waiting.

Ladies’ rooms really are a microcosm of womanhood. Here we are--all ages, all shapes and sizes--squeezed together and intent on one purpose: waiting for the next available stall.

I saw a play once where a group of women converged regularly in the ladies’ room for therapy-like sessions to analyze their lives. If only restrooms really were such great salons of thought. My greatest personal revelation in the restroom has been, “I’ll never have the Double Gulp again.”

I’ve felt enslaved to ladies’ rooms, ever hurriedly in search of them to ease my peanut-sized bladder. And like that Army slogan goes, you hurry up and wait. Ladies’ rooms are never big enough for all the women inclined to use them, particularly at the movies, where women stumble over popcorn boxes and squish errant Mike and Ikes to get a head start before the last credits roll.

As if to set me straight, a male friend boasted about the efficiency of the men’s room: “We go in, take care of business and get out.” Lack of privacy aside, those urinal troughs can accommodate as many men as dare to squeeze next to each other. I witnessed this spacious freedom--the first red flag that I had made a mistake--after wandering into a men’s room in a busy airport. I stared at the running water like a raccoon caught in headlights, realizing I’d blundered into enemy territory. In the quiet, empty men’s room, I cursed the unfairness of it all.

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Perhaps more does make for merrier. What happens inside depends on the ladies’ room.

Some, like those in artsy movie theaters, resemble costume parties where women readjust their thrift-store chic. In nightclub ladies’ rooms, women primp and posture before the mirrors and laugh and cry easily under the influence. Here, you’ll receive dirty looks or smiles and the most enthusiastic compliments from women caught up in the gaiety of the night.

In mall restrooms, teen girls, left on their own to prowl, hog the sinks and mirrors, painting themselves with the dark eyeliner and lipstick that’s probably not allowed at home. These public places can evolve to “Romper Room,” besieged by mothers crooning potty talk at changing tables and in the stalls, underneath which wayward children sometimes slither like snakes to peek at other occupants.

In office restrooms, I’ve seen some amazing activities, which I can only guess are ways to kill part of the eight-hour day: painting fingernails; blow-drying and spritzing hair; changing clothes; reading; makeup application and water-cooler-type chatter.

I got a good look at truck stop restrooms on a bus trip from Los Angeles to Seattle, where I was traveling with environmentally conscious young women who frowned upon flushing. The bus had no bathroom, so we had to control our bodily functions between rest stops. The driver told us we had to concentrate on this oneness of bladder consciousness.

So, even at 4 a.m., we’d scramble for our shoes and stumble out of the bus to take advantage of some mini-mart in the middle of nowhere. The men would zip in and out of the one-seater restrooms, while we women formed a long line past the neon cheese puffs and spinning hot dogs, usually waiting on the woman from Holland who insisted on taking sponge baths.

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The waiting does foster camaraderie, albeit reluctantly. On one chilly night, I was joined by an older woman with big white hair and big yellow teeth waiting to use the outdoor restroom for a Santa Barbara mountain restaurant.

“I only smoke when I’m drinking,” she announced, fogging me with fumes from her cigarette. Indeed, I’d been aware of her drinking in the restaurant earlier as her cackling laughter and obscene comments rose above all other conversations. As we waited, she loudly cursed two women who were sharing the handicapped restroom, screaming, “I gotta peeeee!” She noticed a couple outside taking pictures of a wandering cat. “Take a picture of this, @*&#!” she yelled, pointing at her groin with her middle finger. As I finally dashed into the restroom, I found another use for it--sanctuary.

Another time, a long line of us at a play--strangers to each other--coiled down some stairs waiting our turn for the one-seat ladies’ room. A few of us had been enviously eyeing the men’s room door, where not a single male had passed for some time. Then someone yelled, “Go for it!” and while one of us stood guard, others used the men’s room.

Now, that was a bonding moment.