My brother ran the numbers over and over: safety ratings, insurance premiums, gas mileage. But no matter how he tweaked them, it came out the same: it actually did make financial sense to let the Young Relative drive the handsome, shiny piece of German engineering that had been mothballed in the garage.
"Sweet!" said the Y.R.
Indeed! Attempting to put this in perspective, I told him how his father, as a teenager, had made do with a car on the opposite end of the socioeconomic spectrum: a ramshackle Ford Pinto that was equal parts scrap-yard deals and bungee cords.
"You are SUCH a Unionville preppie!" I accused the Y.R.
He gave me that patient, long-suffering look he perfected way back when he was a Hillendale Husky.
"Tilda," he said. "It's a 2006."
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