The Gloved One.


Yes, it is true.  Rogelio wears gloves.

He wears gloves in the house.

No, he is not a Michael Jackson fan.  It is because of the cold.  Yes, the cold IN the house.

A couple of years ago, Rogelio started developing a reaction to the cold.  His hands and knees get red and itchy when he is exposed to extreme weather.  Like say, 15 degrees.  I’m talking Celsius.

So now he wears gloves and fleece long johns between November and April.

At least I put him on to the old forester’s trick of cutting the finger tips off so he can type or pick up a pen.  Or skratch his itchy knees.

Can you believe, the only guy in Spain allergic to the cold, married a girl from small-town Canada.  From the sticks.  From the boonies.  Or if you want another good Algeciras term, Del quinto coño de Canadá. (From the fifth vagina of Canada)

The first year I lived in Spain I constantly suffered the heat.  That is when I knew he really loved me.  He let me sleep with the window open all winter.

Since then we have both adjusted our internal thermostats and come to some temperature middle ground.  I close the window, he wears gloves.  I kick off the covers and he eagerly doubles up my share.  I go swimming, he holds my towel.

And even without a stiff wind blowing through our apartment, I know he still loves me.

He lets me tease him on my blog.

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5 comments

  1. 15 degrees Celsius? We consider ourselves very lucky if we get to see 10 in the winter, and lots of times I’m just happy if it’s above zero. But hey, a husband that lets you tease him on the blog is a treasure, so humor him.

    Oh, and by the way, I have an award for you over at my place.

  2. I have a theory. And it’s completely UNscientific. But I maintain my ground – I’m stubborn that way. And my theory is: all Spaniards are unusually warm. Think about it. Is Rogelio’s skin warm to the touch? Is he a cold phobic? (I think you answered that one, well, sort of).

    I love Joe dearly but the guy is a one man bakery. Hot, hot, HOT. I’m like you, bicycle kicking the covers off in the middle of the night and DYING the first day it breaks 80 degrees (F). God help me when we finally land in Cordoba. Ya know, I’m still trying to work him over for a shot at Cantabria, Navarra, Galicia…hell, anyplace where my tires won’t melt. You can take the girl out of middle America but you can’t take those cold ass midwestern winters out of the girl.

    Now can you?

    1. Wow, Cordoba in the summer would be tough on me. Although I did walk across the meseta in August, but getting in and out of your car daily would be an ordeal for a midwest or Canadian gal. Aim for the coast. How does Algeciras grab you? Would 2 euro/kilo strawberries at the market today seal the deal for you?

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