Like many before me, I can’t tell you how many women have told me how “lucky” I am that, as a man, I’m able to “go” wherever I please.

I can’t say that there are not certain advantages to such “male mobility,” and I can’t say that I haven’t at times enjoyed the freedom to pull over, exit the van and assert my presence in the nearby brush.

Such freedom has been, at times, a definite relief.

Yet I would not go so far as to call myself “lucky.”

There is a code — a time-honored way of doing things in men’s restrooms that renders the “male experience” in many ways similar to that of the stereotypical female waiting and alone at a romantic restaurant: stood up.

I understand that the notion of lavish lounge areas in women’s restrooms — complete with couches, coffee tables and fine art — is a vastly over-exaggerated myth.

But at the same time, any sympathy for the physiological constraints of female pottying wanes when I consider the fact that each time I seek indoor relief, I am literally corralled — standing up and sometimes between two hulking brutes — and it’s, much like the Kentucky Derby, off to the races.

All this is to say nothing of the fact that if a man’s eyes meet the eyes of another man in the restroom for even a millisecond, at least one man (and probably his family) will be dead within the hour.

Any inherent laziness (despite the alarming rate of unwashed hands) disappears in a men’s restroom. If, say in Van Andel Arena, there are 20 available urinals and a man happens to be standing at the first one, another man will walk 30 extra feet to avoid the inevitable assumption of homosexuality that would arise if, say, he were, God forbid, to stand within a stone’s throw of another man.

In a men’s restroom, there is no rest. The man is constantly on alert — listening for potential threats and searching for ways in which to assert his manliness.

If a man smiles in the restroom, he is either a) a United States senator; or b) gay. If two men find themselves washing their hands (if such a thing is possible) and one makes a joke, or remarks on the weather, he is greeted with a skeptical grumble at the most, and a full-on face plant if the other interprets a simple “hello” as “I’m very interested in making you my life partner.”

Perhaps I’m being unreasonable. But for those who know me, I’m not particularly interested in competing with David Beckham for “Manliest Man” (David “Rides the Bench” Beckham, really?), and yet I can’t say I haven’t been swirlied by the potty-mouthed propaganda of the men’s restroom.

Upon entering a restroom, I exert much effort in making myself appear more imposing than I am — a task that is made considerably more difficult by my recently acquired heft. Over the years, I’ve learned that — as Larry Craig infamously said — a “wide stance” is actually a good idea; a delicate, feet-together position is for wussies.

And I know for a fact that if David “Hair Products” Beckham were to appear in a typical, midwestern convenience store restroom, he would be, um, well, “under suspicion.”

Of course, stalls are another matter entirely and thus have their own set of rules.

Rule number one is that a man does not approach a closed door. Period. Locks should not be tested, and after the age of four, peering at feet beneath the stall door is perverse.

Rule number two is that one does not talk once inside a stall. Talking is generally not acceptable in any part of a restroom, but inter-stall communications and “call outs” are grounds for a face plant.

And, of course, there is Rule number three: yes, Jenny is a %$@&#.

It’s hard to complain when you’re arguably a member of the most disgustingly privileged demographic on Earth, and yet when it comes to restroom “etiquette,” I yearn for the fields.