It felt wonderful to dress up in the "new" date dress that I'd had reserved for quite some time (given that most nights I wear a mixture of pumpkin puree and yoghurt).
Young Edward gave me the greatest gift of all by staying with Granny and Poppa, so not only did I get a night off, I got a sleep in as well.
For longer than I can remember, my favourite simple pleasure is to curl up in bed with chocolate and low-brow chick lit (the sort with pictures of airbrushed hot women on the cover and the word "scandal" in the title somewhere).
Thus started life as a 30-something-year-old (hey, I've only just stopped being 21, do you really think I'm going to tell you my actual age?).
The day continued with the joy that can only come from seeing your toddler's smiling face when they've been away from you for a night.
With Edward on my hip we bounced from brunch with one friend to a long winery lunch with a couple of others - including one who'd flown from Auckland just for the afternoon. Friendship doesn't get better than that.
By the time we got home, the house was showing signs of the wonderful combination of a November birthday and the first full flush of roses. Each bud of the many that friends and family had picked from their garden or had delivered looked so beautiful I felt I ought to stay home just to ensure each of them got the attention they deserved.
But it was my birthday. There was more eating to be done, this time al fresco on the beach with fish and chips and family ... simple pleasure No2.
Normally, I am the sort of person that prefers to be in the background making things happen rather than centre stage, hogging the limelight.
For that reason I've often tried to go under the radar on birthdays. But I've since learned it is easier to surrender to the celebration and even enjoy it. If people I love want to spoil me and make a fuss, why should I stop them?
I also now never work on my birthday because it's not just about others spoiling us, it's about learning how to spoil ourselves.
Now the magic is over for another year, and the calories that never count on your birthday must be watched for the next 364 days (excluding Christmas Day, and the weeks either side of Easter of course).
Earlier this week I photographed a couple renewing their vows after 20 years.
They seemed happier, more relaxed and way more chilled about how they looked than any of the young first-timers I've met (and I've met hundreds).
I asked what the secret was, and they revealed that when you're in your 40s, you stop sweating the small stuff, especially how you look.
I have a few years yet before I can test this theory, but if it is true, then maybe I've turned a corner and my badass birthday attitude is set to be permanently replaced with a smile (albeit one with a few more wrinkles around it).
-Eva Bradley is a columnist and photographer.
