Like so many other people, we attended an amazing Super Bowl party on Sunday night with an incredible assortment of food—different kinds of chili, wings, various chips, veggies and dips, every liquid libation imaginable, desserts, everything anyone could wish for. Our host and a friend had set up a ten-foot projection screen which gave all the guys in attendance a major stiffie. There was also a big-screen high-def television in another area showing THE GAME so it was visible from any vantage point. Sounds like a perfect evening, right? If you’re a guy.

My playoff dilemma this past Sunday night wasn’t about the Bronco’s and the Panthers. I had to leave the party early because in the ladies version of Super Bowl and going head-to-head in the competition was Downton Abbey. It’s in its last season and I didn’t think the guys would appreciate me changing the channel. We’re all on the edge of our seats wondering whether bitchy Lady Mary will land a forever guy before her eggs dry up or her heart turns to ice. Will Daisy pass her exams and lead the Labour Party in a run for Prime Minister in the new world order? Will Anna’s heart breaks be rewarded with twins—one of each, a boy and a girl?

Potential love matches are springing up all over the place. What are Mr. Barrow and the footman getting up to in those clandestine meetings in Mr. B.’s room? After six seasons of wearily watching Lady Edith shed buckets of tears, will she fall in love again and create a multi-media empire with the guy who works nights with her. Will Mrs. Hughes finally hit Mr. Carson over the head with a frying pan and tell him to cook his own damn meals? Maybe then they’ll be the way he likes them. So many potential plot twists; so many gorgeous new dresses to admire during evening cocktails.

Such delicious, genteel escapism. No concussions, crotch-grabbing, drug-enhanced testosterone chest-bumps or violence anywhere. In fact, at the risk of sounding like I’m over-simplifying (which I doubt), football to me is a giant yawn. All they do is run and get knocked down; run and get knocked down. End of story. Where’s the fun in that? But I do acknowledge the Super Bowl parties are great fun. And the best defensive lines of all? The ones uttered by Dowager Countess Grantham. Go Downton!