Unsuitable for a Heroine

With a fairly active imagination growing up (and, frankly, as an adult, too), I have imagined myself the heroine of a hundred different books, fairy tales, and movies. I'm convinced my imagination has saved my sanity many times over, especially while doing boring jobs. (My high school job at the public library was perfect for a student, and it was also perfectly boring. Shelving books only takes half your brain at best. Not to mention one of my college jobs, early-morning custodial. Waxing floors and emptying trash cans does not tax your brain. Even at three in the morning.)

Anyway, pretending to be a heroine is fun, but I can't imagine I'd be very good as a real heroine:

• I hate killing wasps, bees, or anything larger than an ant. The squishy sound they make...ugh.
• I hate being in pain--the anticipation of being stung by a wasp or bee is almost worse than the sting itself (or the squish).
• I have bad eyesight. Really, really bad eyesight. Enough said.
• I can't ride a galloping horse across the moonlit countryside, or steal all the bad guys' mounts. In fact, I've never ridden a horse--being led around the barnyard on a pony when I was eight doesn't count.
• I can't identify nutritious berries, nuts, roots, or plants, nor can I skin the rabbit I caught with my cleverly disguised snares.
• I can't use a sword, a bow, a gun, or a spear. Or any weapon bigger than a flyswatter.
• I can't escape the bad guys by swimming across the river, doubling back, and hiding my trail. I can barely swim in the deep end of a calm pool.

The list could go on and on, but you get the idea. At least I don't have bad allergies, so when I have to hide in the meadow or the stables I won't give away our position by sneezing.