While I save enough to buy a decent used car, my dad has been generous enough to let me borrow one of his two fine autos – a jet-black 2006 Lexus sedan.

And while I feel a tinge of shame about being an adult male who drives his father’s car, it’s easily overpowered by the ego-boosting charge I get out of pretending that I own a Lexus and that, for all you know, I could be a government agent.

One disadvantage of driving a Lexus, however, is that when you ding the body, it costs some serious moola to mend.

So, I’m leaving my dad’s new house – his hobby is remodeling homes from the mid-century modern period – and slip into the front seat of the Lexus. I press the ignition button and watch the control panel light up like James Bond’s Lotus in “The Spy Who Loved Me.” This car actually has friggin’ radar — otherwise known as “Park Assist” — that warns you when you’re getting dangerously close to an object. It reads all clear, so I pull forward, only to hear a sickening scraping sound on the right side of the car.

I had rubbed against a decorative boulder at curbside, lying low enough to avoid the sensors. The car’s body now has a four-foot-long, chalky scrape across the side.

Here’s the part you don’t see in James Bond movies: the secret agent checking Angie’s List to find a good body shop. Hardly a cautious driver himself, my dad had a recommendation at the ready: Langford’s Collision Repair Inc. I vetted the shop on the List, and found stellar grades and several Super Service Awards.

The repair estimate wasn’t cheap, but at least I felt like I could trust the quote. I’ll be back on the case in no time.