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I borrowed my sister's sewing machine one day because I felt industrious and my kitchen windows were sorely in need of some curtains. I also knew that by sewing my own curtains, I could save a fortune over what the department stores charged. After picking out my material and paying less than $15.00 for it, I chuckled to the sales woman in the sewing store, "Can't beat that price for curtains for three windows!"

Upon returning home proudly with my bargain purchase, I sat down to begin my work. Although I sew infrequently, I can turn the sewing machine on, thread it, press the pedal and begin sewing without looking through the manual. But when I have to do anything else, like thread the bobbin, I run into trouble. Because I was about to perform a foreign task on a borrowed piece of equipment, I felt it best to glance through the manual to learn how to thread the bobbin properly.

Although I "glanced" through the manual, I still managed to wind thread under the bobbin, beside the bobbin, over the bobbin, but never around the bobbin. On my fourth attempt, the machine screamed for mercy and refused to participate anymore. Somehow -- perhaps because I hadn't read the documentation thoroughly -- I managed to throw the sewing machine out of alignment so badly that every time the needle dipped down, it scraped, somewhat like nails running down a chalkboard, against some unknown object in the depths of the machine.

I tried to blame the manual for my four embarrassing attempts at threading the bobbin, but I wasn't justified. The pocket-sized manual was certainly clear enough, but I simply glanced at the two-page description of threading the bobbin rather than taking the time to read it fully. I must confess here that my vision of two pages is probably very different than what actually was before me -- pictures took up most of the space on the page. But because I am a technical writer, and I write instructional manuals for a living, I felt I didn't need to thoroughly read two pages of this manual -- the procedure seemed simple enough at a glance.

I think the reason I felt compelled to write about my personal disaster is that I am guilty of taking my own profession for granted. Being a technical writer, I can bridge the gap between technical programming staff and end users who are completely unfamiliar with the software before them. Because I can bridge that gap, I sometimes assume that in using everyday items, I am never an end user, when in fact I am. My sister's sewing machine would attest to that, if it could talk.

I have to admit that I get a great deal of satisfaction in being able to understand technical issues and being able to relay them to a non-technical audience. Although my profession requires me to think and to act as an end user so that I can produce non-technical documentation, I truly never am a typical end user because I have a higher level of technical knowledge than my audience does. I've realized that sometimes I forget that I am an end user -- and that the sewing machine that I broke is as complex to me as some of the programs that I document are to my end users.

I've learned quite a bit from my disaster. I've learned that no matter how simple a task may first appear, you're better off to thoroughly read through the documentation, especially if the equipment you're using is borrowed. I've also learned that perhaps department stores really don't charge a fortune in comparison to my home project. Considering the cost of the material ($15), the repair costs for the machine ($90), my time running back and forth to the repair shop ($50), and my mental anguish over having to tell my sister I broke her machine (I can't fathom the estimated cost for that one), $155 seems an awful lot for curtains for three windows.