Come the morning of December 25, I will be searching under the tree for gifts—specifically for those that are gender neutral, tasteful, and wildly inappropriate. That’s because I believe that just as a stranger is a friend you haven’t met, a beautifully wrapped Christmas atrocity is a misfit purchase destined to be dumped on some other poor soul at my convenience.
Hello, everyone, my name is Doug and I am a re-gifter.

Sadly, ever since it became a punch line on “Seinfeld,” the art of passing on barely used stuff has fallen into disrepute. For some reason it is associated with being lazy, cheap, and sleazy. To be a re-gifter is to be only a little less reprehensible than someone who clubs baby seals, or does not sort his recyclables.

That’s a shame because for decades it has been part of the fabric of our society. What are heirlooms but re-gifts? And where would organ transplants be without this same spirit? There is so much to be said for re-gifting. Think how much bigger landfills would be without people like me fobbing off the unwanted on the unsuspecting.

Consider all hurt feelings that have been spared. For example, I do not drink saki, have never drunk saki, can barely spell saki. So I was mystified when my sister gave me an elegant saki set of white flask and matching cups. I did not say, “What were you thinking?” Instead I bided my time and gave it as house-warming gift to a pretentious friend who sets out tiny ceramic fish on which to rest our chopsticks when we have sushi at her place.

Be aware that like unicycling or break dancing, re-gifting is not for everyone. You need two things: a total lack of shame and the ability to lie convincingly.  But if you can master those, you are free from the oppressive myth of the perfect gift, the naïve notion that for everyone on your list there is just the right thing.

That holiday myth can be traced back to the iconic story of giving, “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry. It tells of a young man who pawns his heirloom pocket watch to buy his bride an elegant tortoise-shell comb set for her lush, beautiful hair. At the same time the bride cuts off her lush beautiful hair and sells it to buy a chain for his heirloom watch. The ending is supposed to be more sweet than bitter, as each realizes what they were really doing was giving each other their love. But even as a kid I was bothered by this twist in the story: eventually her hair will grow back and she can use the combs, but what he is left with at Christmas is no watch and a bald wife.

I hold in my hand a Moleskine Pocket Weekly Calendar that my daughter gave me last Christmas. I love its over-engineered features—the ribbon place mark, the handy card pocket inside the back cover. “It’s perfect,” I said when I unwrapped it. “Thank you.”

“Glad you like it,” she said. “One of my clients gave it to me and I couldn’t use it, so I figured I’d give it to you.”

I could not have been prouder and comforted to know the tradition will continue.