As my wife and I finally sit down to catch back up on Downton Abbey, I’m once again left scratching my head, wondering why in the hell I’m so hooked on this show. Because I shouldn’t be. At all. On the surface it seems specifically designed to repel me in the same way football, basketball and most other athletic events do. There's no over the top gun play, no vulgarity, no super powers, no time travel, no mysteries wrapped in enigmas hidden under statues of three-toed monsters, nothing. But it doesn’t repel me. It sucks me in and burrows into my very soul.
Not only that, but I’ve realized that I can’t even be quiet about it. No, I have to talk about it to anyone who will listen. This is odd because there is a very real and vocal part of my brain that is telling me to be quiet, that I’m losing scores of not only cool points, but man points as well. But there I am, telling anyone who’ll listen about my love for the show and why they should watch it as well. I actually talk about Lord Grantham, Mary, Matthew, Cora, Edith, Mr. Bates and The Dowager Countess of Grantham like they're not only real people, but people everyone is already familiar with.
Did you know I do a mean Mr. Carson impression? Seriously, I worked hard on that shit. Yeah...
I really and truly just don’t get it.
If you’re expecting some kind essay on how I can tie Downton Abbey back to comics, or draw some parallel to Star Trek or anything like that, don’t bother. That’s not what this post is all about it. I think this is part confession, part cry for help, part ploy to get even more unwitting fools like me hooked on the black tar heroine that is the daily life of the Crawley family and their devoted serving staff.
I mean… Shit. I cried last night. When Lady Sybil’s baby was born, everything seemed fine, you know? She was out of the woods, wasn't she? She was happy, Tom was happy, everyone was so happy! God, life is so unfair and cruel and...
I need help.