N othing fits. I don’t know why I continue to pretend, from one season to the next, that anything will—why I persist in clumsily folding things up and tucking them into a bottom drawer to be revisited a full year later to see if the odd item or two might. They won’t. They never do. It’s spring again, time for our most solemn, annual sartorial rite, The Buying of the Khakis. It is a grim ritual enjoyed by none. Boring, year-old brown pants are ferreted out from the back of whatever drawer they’ve been squished to the back of since the last piano recital. Then and only then can the cajoling commence, the asking, pleading and ultimatum-rendering that must be completed before one and…