This way I know I’ll still respect me in the morning

This week, I went panty shopping at the Pleasure Chest, tried on push-up bras at Victoria’s Secret and seriously considered a $295 corset from Agent Provocateur. I got a bikini wax at Anastasia and spent six seconds in a booth at Hollywood Tans, just to take the glare off.

No, I’m not doing some kind of “I’m single, so I’m marrying myself” ritual for boosting self-esteem. Nor do I have a special man I’m hoping to impress for Valentine’s Day. In fact, three weeks ago, my three-year, emotional vortex of a relationship collapsed. For the fifth time.

So why the primping?

I got invited to the My Lusty Valentine Pajama Aphrodisiac Potluck Party, an over-the-top Hollywood Hills, invitation-only, flesh-baring extravaganza. And it’s got a very strict, very sexy dress code. Proceeds benefit a children’s charity. (A lusty pajama party? Of course it’s for the kids.) But what the charity angle really means is that everyone can flirt with hedonistic debauchery -- kissing booths, chocolate body painting -- and still feel good about themselves in the morning.

Normally, I avoid this kind of scene like a scratchy red teddy. I’m not a prude, but I’m no exhibitionist, either. But there was something exciting about baring a little flesh for a good cause.

I considered a few other Valentine’s Day invitations. The e-vite for a “Girl’s Night in With ‘The Women’ and ‘All About Eve,’ ” though kind, was just too depressing to bear. The party in Hermosa Beach with the promise of 22-year-old surfer boys sounded too “Dude, Where’s My Car?” meets “The Graduate” for my taste. My other options ran the gamut from visiting married-with-children friends in San Diego to drinking a bottle of wine and belting out Helen Reddy songs in my living room, a la Bridget Jones.

Despite my choices, I couldn’t get the lusty potluck out of my head. Maybe it was the potluck aspect, which doesn’t mean casserole. It means green M&Ms;, oysters on the half shell and strawberries with chocolate fondue. Maybe I want to celebrate my newly dumped self by metaphorically shedding some layers. Maybe I just want to look hot and be ogled, for a little post breakup validation.

Three weeks ago I was looking forward to Feb. 14 for other reasons. Before my breakup, I had fantastical delusions of a massive tribute from a high-end florist (Secret Garden would be fine); dinner somewhere desperately romantic (Geoffrey’s in Malibu). Hand-holding, eye-gazing, the whole nine yards. The inevitable reality, of course, would have been a tense night -- him under pressure to live up to my unrealistic expectations, me disappointed by whatever grudging gesture he made.

So this Saturday night, I’ll be buffed, polished, waxed and corseted -- with no Mr. Right to share it with. But, I won’t have to share it with Mr. Wrong, either.

Instead, I’ll be flanked by three of my best male friends in the world, decked in their silk robes, boxers, smoking jackets and slippers, ready for an adventure. I may not meet my soul mate at the lusty potluck, but will I be bitter, depressed, sad or lonely about it? Hardly.

The thing is, if you’re single on Valentine’s Day, you might not get the dozen roses or the box of chocolates, but you won’t get your romantic fantasies blown to smithereens, either. In fact, just the opposite. Of course we’d all love to end up at a cozy table for two. I certainly would. But on Valentine’s Day, that table can be laden with expectation and you might just be better off without it.

So this Saturday, when I’m prancing around at the lusty potluck in my 7-inch Lucite platforms, I’ll be counting my blessings. I might lose my shoes, my contact lenses, even my dignity. But at the end of the night, the one thing I’ll still have intact is hope.

Julia Gaynor can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.