Happy Himbo Monday
Monday was supposed to be normal.
Then Wells walked into the gym dressed in shiny metallic gold compression tights, black-and-gold trainers, and a sleeveless gold hoodie that said BIG DUMB JOCK across the chest.
Coach looked at the shirt.
Then at Wells.
Then back at the shirt.
Wells smiled. “Morning, Coach.”
Coach crossed his arms. “You chose that?”
“Bro, the shirt chose me.”
“That explains too much.”
Wells laughed, but it was thinner than usual. His grin was there. The muscles were there. The gold was absolutely there. But Coach could see the stress sitting behind his eyes, still buzzing, still chewing through whatever Wells refused to say out loud.
Coach pointed to the bench.
“Sit.”
Wells blinked. “Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Worse?”
“Rest.”
Wells made a face. “That sounds like trouble with cushions.”
Coach set a small speaker on the floor between them.
Wells stared at it.
“Coach.”
“For one week,” Coach said, voice calm, “you are going to relax.”
“I relax.”
“You overthink while lying down.”
“That is multitasking.”
“No.”
Wells opened his mouth.
Coach raised one hand.
“Permission?”
Wells paused.
The joking dropped for half a second.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah. Permission.”
Coach pressed play.
A low, warm pulse filled the gym. Slow. Steady. Golden. It moved under the lights, under the iron, under Wells’ breathing.
Coach’s voice followed it.
“Eyes on me.”
Wells looked up.
“Good.”
His shoulders lowered.
“Monday starts clean. Monday starts simple. Monday starts with Wells letting go.”
Wells swallowed. “Coach…”
“Just listen.”
The pulse softened.
“You do not need to solve everything today.”
Wells blinked slower.
“You do not need to carry everything today.”
His hands loosened on his knees.
“You do not need to think ten steps ahead.”
The gold fabric on his chest rose and fell with one long breath.
“You only need one thought.”
Wells’ eyes had gone soft.
“One thought,” Coach repeated. “Happy.”
Wells smiled faintly.
“Happy,” he murmured.
“One mode.”
“Happy.”
“One week.”
“Happy.”
Coach stepped closer, voice firm but careful.
“You remain Wells. You remain safe. You remember everything. You can stop this any time. But for one week, when Coach says Happy Himbo, the stress gets quiet, the smile gets real, and the brain stops making noise it does not need.”
Wells’ grin widened.
Empty of worry.
Full of sunlight.
Coach snapped his fingers.
“Happy Himbo.”
Wells sat up straighter.
His face changed.
Not gone.
Not blank.
Just lighter.
Massively lighter.
He looked down at himself, flexed both arms, and smiled like he had just discovered his own biceps for the first time.
“Bro,” Wells said softly. “These are sick.”
Coach pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Stand.”
Wells stood.
Still huge.
Still gold.
Still Wells.
But the stress had vanished, replaced by the peaceful confidence of a man with no thoughts currently blocking traffic.
Coach studied him. “How do you feel?”
Wells beamed. “Big.”
“Anything else?”
“Happy.”
“Anything else?”
Wells looked down at his shirt.
Then back up.
“Dumb, but like… recreationally.”
Coach almost smiled.
“Good.”
Wells nodded seriously. “Happy Himbo mode activated.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is what the muscles heard.”
Then Wells turned and walked out of the gym.
Coach frowned.
“Wells?”
No answer.
A door opened somewhere down the hall.
Then silence.
Then footsteps.
Several minutes later, Wells came back.
Coach stared.
Wells was now dressed in a hot pink version of the outfit he had worn before: shiny metallic hot pink compression tights, black-and-hot-pink trainers, and a cropped hot pink tank top stretched across his chest with bold letters reading:
HAPPY HIMBO
Coach looked at the outfit.
Then at Wells.
Then at the empty hallway.
“Where did that come from?”
Wells smiled brightly.
“No thoughts, Coach.”
“That does not answer the question.”
Wells flexed.
“Only vibes.”
Coach looked at the hot pink tights.
The cropped tank.
The trainers.
The enormous happy grin.
The total absence of stress.
Then he looked at the speaker.
“I did not install a wardrobe protocol.”
Wells nodded. “Maybe the Gold did.”
“It is pink.”
“Happy pink.”
Coach closed his eyes.
Wells stepped closer, still smiling, still glowing, still dangerously relaxed.
“Do I pass?”
Coach opened one eye.
“You are supposed to be resting.”
Wells nodded with deep himbo seriousness.
“Resting brain. Working body.”
“Wells.”
“Happy Himbo.”
The phrase landed in the gym like a dumbbell wrapped in glitter.
Coach stared at him for a long moment.
Then, very quietly, he said, “This is going to be a long week.”
Wells grinned.
“Bro, I know. Isn’t that awesome?”
Coach looked at the shirt again.
HAPPY HIMBO
He had no idea where it came from.
He had no idea how Wells had changed that fast.
He had no idea why the outfit fit perfectly.
But Wells was smiling for real.
So Coach picked up the clipboard.
Pointed toward the mats.
And said, “Stretch.”
Wells saluted with both biceps.
“Affirmative, Coach. Brain off. Hamstrings online.”
Happy Himbo Monday had begun.
And somewhere, somehow, the hot pink outfit waited like it had always known.
Ready to turn the noise down and let the Gold do the thinking? Join the Golden Army, trust Coach’s protocol, and discover why going Happy Himbo for a week might be the smartest dumb idea you ever had: Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
