I was 16, and the only hurdle between me and my driver's license was maneuverability, the test where mean people set up cones a few inches apart so you can squeeze your car between them — backward. All my practice yielded only flattened cones.

Big sisters to the rescue. Jen and Becky, three and two years older than me, packed me and our soccer pylons into the minivan and made tracks for the nearest parking lot. Having recently been green behind the wheel themselves, they remembered all the tricks and coached me through the cones: “Right … left … cut hard back to the right!” That was years ago, but I still can parallel park with the best of 'em.