It was a chill afternoon in California—the kind where the sun was just warm enough, the breeze was light, and the whole vibe made you want to be outside. You and Lauren had just finished lunch and were hanging out in front of your place when she suddenly got this determined look in her eye.

“I wanna learn how to skateboard,” she said confidently, pointing to the old board propped up near the garage.

You raised an eyebrow, half-smirking. “You? Skateboarding?”

“Yes, me,” she said with that classic Lauren sass. “You said I could do anything I set my mind to, remember?”

You laughed. “I also said to not break anything trying.”

But there was no stopping her. A few minutes later, she was out in the street—barefoot at first until she realized, “Okay maybe I do need shoes.” She came back in, threw on her sneakers, and marched right back out with the skateboard like she was ready to join the X Games.

The first attempt? A full-on tumble to the side. She stood up like nothing happened and yelled, “I’m good!” Second attempt? She stayed on a little longer but ended up hopping off like it was a fire drill. Third? A wobbly glide, a small scream, and then—boom—down again.

You were standing on the sidewalk trying so hard not to laugh, but eventually you gave in, cracking up as she lay on the ground dramatically and yelled, “This board is rigged!”

You jogged over and offered your hand. “Want some help, Tony Hawk?”

She groaned and let you pull her up, brushing the grass off her sweatshirt. “Yes. But don’t rub it in.”

You showed her how to balance better, held her hands for a few runs, and for a brief 10 seconds, she actually looked like she had it under control—until she tried to turn and immediately flew off to the side again.

Laying in the grass, arms out like she was done with life, she looked up at you and muttered, “I’m retiring. That was my whole career.”