"If we're going to meet anyone, the skiing thing is inevitable," Debbie sighs. "But I bet they have hot instructors."

We sign up for a full day of "advanced beginner" lessons at the Mountain Sports School for Saturday at 9 a.m. Then we chase away the dread with mochas at the ground-floor café.

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The town of Jackson is roughly a 20-minute ride from Teton Village, and a shuttle bus runs between the two. We head to Jackson--a quaint, quirky town--for dinner of miso-glazed cod and spicy salmon rolls at Nikai Sushi. The fish is surprisingly fresh, but the restaurant is like a Noah's ark of cute couples paired off in booths. After dinner, we trek several icy blocks to the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, a Jackson landmark. Inside, this gloriously kitschy dive appears to have been decorated by Liberace in a John Wayne moment. Wagon-wheel chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and real saddles line the bar instead of stools. In the back of the room is a modest dance floor, where couples two-step to a live band through a musty wall of smoke.

Unlike the one at upscale Teton Village, this crowd is more Deadwood than Dartmouth. It's a lively hodgepodge of older locals and 40-something tourists, clinking shot glasses, smoothing down handlebar mustaches, and tipping real ten-gallon hats at any and all ladies who pass their way. A particularly weathered cowpoke nearly drags Debbie over to the dance floor, but I somehow manage to save her. It's 10:45 p.m., and time to catch the last shuttle back up the mountain. After all, we have a ski lesson in the morning.

Our hot instructor is waiting for us at 9 a.m., poles in hand. Her name is Liz. She's hollering at our 10-person group (half of whom are women) to make a "cheese wedge" shape with our skis. As I wobble down the Pooh Bear slope, I consider bolting into the woods. Instead, I lose my grip on the rope tow and land on my back like a dead beetle, praying no one has seen me.

After two hours of basic introduction, we're chairlifted to an intermediate slice of mountain and told to follow Liz back down. At first, it's terrifying: What if I can't stop? But a few C-turns later, I start to get the rhythm of things. All around us, guys zip past as if they're being filmed for a Mountain Dew commercial. Some give us friendly nods as they whip by. Suddenly, skiing is infinitely more fun.

Back at our condo, our neighbor, whom we'll call Keanu, welcomes us with a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "We're having a party at our place?" says Keanu. "You girls should definitely stop by?"

We apply fresh lip gloss and chandelier earrings (hey, with so many layers involved, it's all about accessorizing) and knock on their door 20 minutes later. It swings open to reveal Keanu, his roommate, a big-screen TV, and a lamp-size bong.

"Didn't you say you're having a party?" I ask. "Oh, yeah, I kinda made that up, you know?"

We hightail it back to the Mangy Moose for buffalo wings and beer. Now that we're real skiers, we've earned the right to some après-ski fun. As we belly up to the bar, however, we discover that a football game is captivating the crowd: Clusters of men laugh, shout at the TV, and punch each other in the arm. It's like something you might see on the Discovery Channel: the Ski Bumus Erectus in his natural habitat.

"Hey! Where are you girls from?" This is the top opening line in Jackson Hole. We make our way over to a table of late-20s/early-30s dot-com guys from Seattle who are totally our speed: sweet, cute, sporty, yet not steroidal. There are 12 of them and two of us. "We need more girls," begs Gil Zalmanovitch, a 32-year-old program manager at Microsoft. "We don't care if they can't ski. If they're cute and can do a C-turn, tell them to come!" Gil and his friends invite us to their ski-in, ski-out chateau, which has a pool table and hot tub.

"Maybe tomorrow," I say, barely able to keep my eyes open. Alas, the downside to a physically rigorous vacation: I actually pass up partying with dot-com millionaires for a good night's sleep.