The most difficult unwanted Christmas gifts were clothes from my mother, as she became elderly. She'd bring or send me the most awful things, mostly shirts that were perfect for a senior citizens bingo game.
And those shirts haunted me all year, as I had to waste space in the closet for them, to have handy when she came to visit me. "Where are those lovely shirts I got you, Robert? Aren't you wearing them?" And I might have gotten even more of them for my birthday.
I had to drag them out the entire time she and my father would visit, which might include going out in public to restaurants and such. And my father dressed as badly, losing during his final years his previous excellent sense of style I had once admired so much, sporting plaid golfing trousers with white belts and shoes, and insisting on draping gold chains around his neck like younger guys, sometimes topped with an English driving cap.
With my mother in lime green double-knit pants suits, and enough bracelets to qualify as gym weights. We must have made a comical sight.