I was out having a wee dance on Saturday night for a pal’s birthday and it reminded me of a question that I’ve wondered about on more than one occasion. And that question is: what is it like in men’s bathrooms on nights out in bars. Not for, like, a pervy reason or anything – I’m in no way after a no pants toilet dance. Faaar too many ways for that to end in a story that just isn’t appropriate for dinner parties.
No, it’s simply because – and I don’t know if you know this but – the women’s bathroom is a goddamn miracle on a night out.
I know it seems highly unlikely, but it’s completely true. Don’t get me wrong. They can get pretty gross and there will inevitably be the odd crying drunken to-do, but that is a mere pittance to pay for the sheer unadulterated ego boost you receive when entering this hallowed space. Let me paint you an admittedly vague picture, the vagueness of which is only marginally related to my being generally less than sober in these situations:
If I’ve been out for a while and had my fair share of ye olde dancing juice, I tend not to be looking my absolute a-list best. (I’d like to believe that three hours of enthusiastic but ultimately terrible shape-throwing in an overpopulated, dark room brings out the Audrey Hepburn in me but SURPRISE! It doesn’t.)
None of that matters, though, because no matter what shit’s going down in the bar – be it looking like I’ve recently melted or battling through a cavalry of creeps (see my blog on defensive dancing should you require further info on that front) – shelter can inevitably be found in the women’s bathroom. The number of times I’ve wandered in to find myself sweaty face to sweaty face with groups of people who spend the next ten minutes telling me how great my clothes/hair/life-size diamante shoulder parrot looks is quite possibly innumerable at this point. I’ve spent more time chatting, helping with make-up and getting/giving advice on anything from how to make a ripped skirt whole again with nothing but toilet roll and derring do (SURPRISE! You can’t) to whether a Masters is the right choice when all you have to pay for it is the aforementioned toilet roll and derring do (SURPRISE! You…also can’t) than Lorraine Kelly could shake a stick at.
Do I care that I’m making the women’s bathroom sound like a low-rent Loose Women? I do not. Mainly because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a whole episode of Loose Women and I’m not 100% clear on what it’s about. But also because in a dog-eat-dog world that even Cruella Devil might consider a dalmation too far, it’s nice to be reminded that not everything has to feel like a punch in the lady balls.
So this is why I wonder if – and sincerely hope that – it does happen in the men’s toilets. That all you fellas build each other up and compliment each other’s giant diamante parrots – euphemism slightly intended – (and, maybe on occasion, tell each other to be a bit less grabby on the dancefloor, no?). Because when your slightly drunk and your face is melting and you danced too many high-stakes dance-offs, there is nothing more fun than receiving a hero’s welcome from a bunch of absolute strangers. It’s heady stuff, let me tell you. I highly recommend.
I probably could just go and ask one of you if this kind of things actually does go down in the men’s toilets…but, alas, I’m too busy living it up in the ladies.