Look, There’s Nothing Wrong With Being an Ernie, Okay?

We get it! A lot of you are Berts. That’s great. Berts make the world go round. Nicole’s a Bert. Mike’s is like the Bert. (His response: “Um, I want to be Big Bird.” Sure you do, buddy.) Josh is at least kind of a Bert — he’d have to be, being a lawyer and all. Meaghan is whatever muppet just had a baby. Mother and child are doing fine, btw!

But I am not like you. I do not color-code my closet, or iron my underwear, or even always know where my underwear is, aside from smashed into a drawer somewhere. I have a hard time focusing. My apartment is a mess, and if it isn’t when you come over it’s only because I ran around like a maniac before you arrived. I watch a lot of Netflix and wish I could watch even more. I don’t cook enough. I let babygirl eat raisins, almost as many as she wants, even though two separate parents in the park this weekend were like, “NO NOT RAISINS ANYTHING BUT RAISINS.”

I’m not good at money: I save it, because spending it makes me anxious, but the instant you say 401(K) to me I want to turn on the Frozen soundtrack really loud and sing along in the bath. Whatever I’m doing, I’d rather be reading. Also, my eyebrows are pretty faint, and I’m short.

Hello, my name is Ester, and I’m an Ernie. And The Billfold is not only for Berts.

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