There’s a mall that I like because I know it so well. Due to its proximity to my daughters’ elementary school, I used to spend much errand time there, buying everything from the girls’ first shoes to their first bras. I’ve got that floor plan down; I can buy socks in less than eight minutes.

I knew what my route would be  even before I’d parked: I’d pop into Betsey Johnson, then shimmy over to Out Of The Box and on to BCBG (after stopping in at See’s Candies for a free, energizing sample).  If those stores yielded no good frocks, I would move on to the big guns, the department stores that weigh down either end of the mall, their massive doors open like jaws.

Betsy Johnson’s inventory was exceptionally hookery, O.O.T.B. too country club, BCBG too ordinary. More importantly, my internal divining rod, the one that directs me towards bargains, was quivering, shifting my body in the direction of  Bloomingdale’s.

Occasionally, under the influence of this device, I have made unwise purchases—a  certain lichen-colored, overly-hairy sweater springs to mind—but for the most part, it is unerring. So, even though I don’t much like to enter Bloomingdales except to buy their exceptional frozen yogurt, I let the divining rod guide me to the second floor, to a massive sale rack, jammed with limp, sale-weary garments.  My hand, as if controlled remotely, reached between a couple of garish size 14s and pulled out a glowing dress.

It was a gold, stretch satin Nicole Miller, size 0, reduced from over $400 by 70%.

I walked straight to the register, where, thanks to some department store combo of sale events, the price was further reduced until the dress was almost free. I paid and left quickly, before the management realized how flawed the discount system was.

As I exited, I heard a bell ring, which I took to mean that some retail angel had gotten his wings. He may have received another promotion when Elizabeth tried on the dress: It was perfectly amazing on her. (She wouldn’t allow me to post the picture.)

But then, she’s at that age when she could wear a Hefty bag and look good….

All you have to do is hurl yourself into Boston’s Dorchester Bay (and that water is about 40º, tops), along with maybe 700 other people, at the crack of dawn (well, 8 a.m., which may seem crack-like after a night of New Year’s Eve revelry) on January 1st.

This, of course, also means appearing publicly in a bathing suit after two weeks of holiday indulgence, which, for me, would require more courage than the icy water part. However, some who take what’s called the Polar Bear Plunge, do it costumed, like one guy this year who dressed as one of the Three Little Pigs. Think pink plastic body suit, toilet paper roll for a snout. (Don’t judge. Would you rather wear a Speedo?)

My sister-in-law, Ellen (pictured here in a red towel), does the Plunge every year. She is 60-ish, swims year round and is therefore very fit and looks good in her bathing suit, and has no grey hair. (I know this last fact is irrelevant but I find it so enviable that I have to mention it.) While I don’t envy her the experience of that frosty splash, I admire her for doing it.

Think about it. Setting aside the insanity of going Polar shortly after your last sip of New Year’s Eve champagne, there are some positives. First, the Plunge is a tradition (in its 109^th year) and, in uncertain times, it can be helpful to embrace those markers that give life structure. Second, it’s an exercise in community bonding that is not Facebook. Third, I’m told you feel much better when it’s over than you did before. (This would be true for me only if the Globe photographer did not capture me in mid-leap in last year’s tankini.) We need all the legal, feel-good activities we can get.

So I applaud Ellen, from the (L.A.) sidelines, a place from which I will comfortably continue to cheer her on every January when she Polar-izes. I may be too much of a wuss to freshen up in a Boston bay, but I thank those who do it for reminding me why it’s a good idea.

Sadly, the “quiet car” was full, bursting with silent people. In the rest of the train, large families trolled for seats, people squawked into cell phones, electronic devices leaked game noise, and food smells wafted. . Thanks to my aggressive behavior (shadowing a big guy who bulldozed his way through the crowd), I secured one of the few remaining seats in a decidedly un-quiet car.

I glanced at the lady next to me and, in that mini-assessment you do with strangers, I thought, she’s older, a grandmother, dyed hair, nice coat. It took me a few minutes to realize that she could easily have summed me up the same way.

The lady pulled out her cell phone–no, it was not a smart one–and made a call.

“Well, we were supposed to be on the 172 out of New York (pronounced ‘Noo Yawk’) at 3 but they bumped us to the 46 at 4. It’s all right, all trains go to the same destination. (Listening pause.) Yeah, but it’s okay, they all go to the same destination. Did you get the turkey?”

I deduced from what followed that it was her daughter on the other end, because the lady was so relaxed about dissing her chosen cooking method.

“What? You’re gonna brine (‘broin’) the bird? Aw, don’t do that, Shelley, it adds salt (‘sow-ult’).”

She came back to the top of her conversation loop: “Should be there by 7. Woulda been earlier (‘uhr-leeyah’) on the 172, but they all go to the same destination. Don’t broin it, hon.”

She hung up and dialed again. “Hi Pearl. Yeah, they bumped us from the 172…Shell wants to broin the bird. I told her (‘huh’), no, too much sow-ult…they all go to the same destination, thank Gawd.”

A young man approached us. “Ma’am, is your husband seated in the car ahead?”

He was addressing the other lady, not me. “Yes,” she said, cautiously. The young man had not washed his jeans or face lately, and he smelled like an avid drinker.

“I’m sitting next to him, if you’d like to switch seats,” he said, as intensely as if he were notifying the lady of a lottery win.Mrs. Nice Coat gratefully made the switch, leaving me seated with Mr. Dirty Jeans, who snapped open his laptop and a thermos containing something with a  high alcohol content. He played a video of modern dancers in a frenzied performance, and he moved with them, as much as one can in an Amtrak seat.  He danced with his hands and upper body, feet tapping and stomping. He’d stop for a thermos break often, then he’d beat his tray rhythmically, muttering “I love you, Leonard Bernstein.”

The activity in the seat next to me was distracting, but that was not the reason I missed my stop. The conductor neglected to tell us where we were when we paused in Old Saybrook. When questioned later, he said, “Oh, our loud speaker doesn’t work too well. Usually I walk through the cars and tell people what stop is next.”

“But you didn’t chose to do that today?” I asked, channeling Cruella DeVille.

“Nope,” he said, cheerfully oblivious to my deadly tone.

So, I (and other pissed off Old Saybrook wanna-goes) disembarked at New London, a stop well down the tracks from our desired one.

Yeah, the trains all go to the same destination, except when they don’t.

Reward for this dubious train ride? The delight on the faces of my ninety-something parents when I finally showed up and regaled them with the (slightly exaggerated) story of my travels, and one fabulous (un-broined) turkey.