Everyone receives gifts they neither need nor want—bath salts for people who only shower, a frilly nightgown wrapped up for someone who sleeps in sweatpants, that 27th tie . . . Sometimes we return them; sometimes we pass them on (a practice so common the word regifting was invented); and sometimes we toss them in the back of a closet. That's what I did years ago when my mother gave me a screamingly bright fuchsia shirt for Christmas. The hanging tag dubbed the eye-popping shade raspberry, but no bush ever grew a fruit that color. My mother wrapped the present in a gold box that had once cont