Sunday, August 3, 1997 · Page 1/Z1

© 1997 San Francisco Chronicle

Bonding at The Bathroom Mirror

LEAH GARCHIK

I read that at a recent global conference, Secretary of State Madeleine Albright and a female European diplomat watched a moving presentation about some heart-rending issue. When it was over and the lights went up, a wet-eyed Albright turned to the woman and asked if her mascara had run.

``No,'' said her instant friend, ``and I'd have told you if it did.''

This is as easy to picture as it would be difficult to conjure up a male equivalent. Would Helmut Kohl and Bill Clinton put their heads together over a summit conference table, for example, to discusses the relative merits of zwieback and Melba toast? (``Would you believe it, Bill, I have hanging in my closet lederhosen in five different sizes, and I haven't worn the smallest three since before my first political campaign?'')

Most men don't forge friendships by finding physical fault with themselves, but for women, it's an instant bond. At The Chronicle, for example, the area in front of the ladies' room mirror is a common testing ground for prospective pals.

Looking at one's own face in the bathroom -- where you're given permission to stare at yourself without being accused of vanity -- allows the process to begin: ``I'm at a loss to deal with this hair today.'' ``Sometimes I think I ought to keep my eyes closed when I wash my hands.'' ``What a slob I am, look at this, right on the front of my white blouse! And I'm supposed to be going out tonight . . .''

The proper response, from a sister equally interested in becoming a pal, should be swift: ``Your hair is beautiful. I wish mine were curly.'' ``You? I take out my contact lenses every time I have to come in here.'' ``But that's such a fabulous blouse. I keep spot remover in my desk drawer. You want to try some?''

Woman No. 1 has announced that she's less than perfect, no threat if there's a competition for men; and woman No. 2 has do-si-doed right around her and said she's worse, uglier, messier and that if there were a competition, she'd cede first place right away to woman No. 1.

Such conversations lead to further revelations, and then lunches and then perhaps appointments outside work, and then, building from admissions of weakness to proclamations of mutual admiration -- a man I know calls this lovely process ``cooing'' -- a friendship is formed.

When I think about the male version of cooing, the first sound that comes to ear is that of a saucepan of boiling water, with bubbles rising to the surface and bursting -- ``Buh, buhhhr, buppp'' -- as the male voices say, ``Buh, here I am, and buhhhr, this is what I do, and buppp, if you don't like it, that's too damned bad.''

I talked with several male colleagues to determine whether this is an unfair perception.

When I asked Subject No. 1 if men, like women, chat in the men's room, he was shocked. ``That's a private time,'' he said.

His first conversation with a newly hired colleague probably would be about ``what had brought him into the work situation,'' and they would discuss ``our places in the work environment.''

Subject No. 2, who has lunch regularly with several other men, would probably break the ice by inviting the newcomer ``to come along to lunch, to be one of the guys.''

Subject No. 3 said he knows it's a cliche, but that he'd probably strike up a conversation around the office coffee pot. ``If you don't know someone, that's where your guard is down.'' The kind of compliment he's likely to offer for openers doesn't come anywhere close to ``Look at that run in my stockings!''

``I saw what you wrote,'' No. 3 might say, ``and that was good work.''

Subject No. 4 is a gay man, but I made it clear we were discussing platonic friendship. He said he particularly likes to engage other men in conversation in the bathroom, because ``Men are always uncomfortable with each other in bathrooms. I always find it intriguing to act counter to perceptions.'' As for subject matter, he might ``make some joke about the newspaper.''

The men talk about their professional lives; the women talk about their insecurities. Considering these apples and oranges of socializing, it's amazing that men or women often manage to forge close friendships with aliens, that is, people not of their own gender. Of course, old habits often get in the way.

For a few years, I've been a panelist on a call-in radio quiz show with two men, and the three of us have become jolly good pals. When the show moved time and venue recently, two managers of the new (to us) station invited us to lunch to get acquainted.

This wasn't a power lunch at Stars; this was a comfortable informal meal at a bustling dim sum restaurant on San Bruno Avenue. We chatted through rounds of small dishes ordered off the cart, taking turns telling stories and sharing snatches of background about where we'd grown up and what we'd done before and how we'd come to be there, that sort of thing. All of which, I'm thinking now, was man talk.

So then littleLeah (the instinct- driven woman who dwells within plain old regular Leah) began a tale about the first broadcast of the show, on the old station some four years ago.

``We were sitting there in the studio,'' she said, ``and the three of us had our headphones on, and the calls were just starting to come in. And we took three or four, and then Dana, the moderator, answered the call of a well-spoken gentleman who knew exactly what he wanted to say.''

Leading up to the dramatic punchline of her story, littleLeah looked around the table. The two gentlemen from the new station looked interested; Dana and Jerry, who knew what was coming, looked horrified. Leah could almost hear them screaming to themselves, ``What the hell is she doing?'' but littleLeah smiled because she knew what an ingratiating tale it was.

``Anyway,'' she continued, ``this caller said, `I've got to tell you that I've been listening to this station for 40 years.' And then he went on, `and this is the worst show I've ever heard in all 40 years.' ''

LittleLeah stopped for a moment and waited for a laugh, or a smile or some look of comradeship. Her fellow panelists pushed their food around their plates. The guys from the radio station looked concerned.

``So the three of us just sat there and looked at each other,'' littleLeah continued, ``and thought that maybe we ought to just take off our headphones right there, and leave. But, of course, the show went on.'' She smiled. ``And everything went fine.'' The gents still looked horrified. ``Just fine.''

The lunch went on, and the show goes on. And I told you that story because I hope you'll be my friend.