Editor’s note: This is the second in a series of four columns depicting experiences that arts and entertainment editors Kathryn Fiegen and P. Kim Bui had attending Workspace classes. Regular commentaries by both writers will continue in three weeks.

I didn’t expect much out of a beadweaving class. In fact, I was kind of dreading attending after the long day I had that Tuesday. I wearily descended into the Workspace in the Memorial Union and sat down at a paper covered table.

After introducing myself to the other beadweavers, my spirits still weren’t lifted. And my eyes were tired. It had really been a long day.

Our instructor, Sara Antion, 23, entered late, apologizing. She was soft spoken and looked like an artist with her flowing skirt, black shirt and jewelry. She quickly set our tools before us—a long, skinny needle, fleece mat and thread.

Next, we had to pick out three colors of tiny beads. I chose black, white and my latest fetish color — green. Sara began showing us how to start our project, and it didn’t take me long to realize I was way out of my league.

The beads were too small, the thread was tangling and I was clumsy. My aching eyes quickly turned into a raging headache. I kept looking up, and the other participants seemed to be getting along fine. I turned red with my realization that I was a beadweaving flunkie.

Sara took pity on me and kept visiting my place on the table to help me with my project. Without the use of my right arm, beadweaving was not my true calling. I was starting to take less time bent over my project and more time staring off into space.

Beads were everywhere, my needle kept coming unthreaded — who would be crazy enough to want to do this? This was the equivalent of extreme necklace making.

Suddenly, I looked up. Everyone in the room was having the same frustrations I was. I was not alone. This new realization gave me the second wind I had been looking for. Don’t most people unite through common frustration?

I called Sara over and, bless her heart, she helped me catch up with the group.

I was going to get this done if it killed me. And damn if I didn’t turn into a beadweaving machine.

Green, black and white beads slid onto the now-tamed thread as my creation was starting to take form.

I actually became pleasant and started making small talk with the rest of the group.

By the time my conversation starters were exhausted, my necklace was near completion. Sara came my way yet again, to assist me in fastening the clasp.

I wasted no time in scooting my chair over to a mirror to put my necklace on its home around my neck.

It wasn’t that pretty, really — it looked like something my grandma might wear when she was feeling “sprightly.”