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Every now and then someone asks me the question.

“So, Neil, how old are you?”

I never answer it directly.

Instead, I lean in a little and say, “There are three ways to tell a person’s age. Which one would you like?”

That usually stops them.

Because we all assume age is just one thing — a number. But I’ve come to believe that the number tells only part of the story.

On Sunday, chronologically speaking, I will be 82 years old.

Eighty-two.

That is 82 summers.
82 birthdays.
82 winters survived.
82 years of accumulating moments.

I don’t hide from that number. I’m actually grateful for it. At this point, every additional year feels less like an entitlement and more like a gift. I think about the friend who, near the end of his life, told me, “Neil, it’s the little things. Holding a cup of hot water with lemon in the morning. Touching a real newspaper.”

He was right. Eighty-two years has given me thousands of those small, ordinary, sacred moments.

But chronological age is just the first way to measure a life.

The second is physiological age.

About a year ago, I took a treadmill stress test. I ran. They measured. They analyzed. When it was over, the technician looked at the results and said, almost casually, “Well, physiologically, you’re 43.”

Forty-three.

I have socks older than 43.

My birth certificate may insist on 82, but apparently my heart did not get the memo.

I was proud of that. Not boastful. Just quietly proud. Because physiological age isn’t about candles on a cake. It’s about capacity. It’s about what your body can still do. It’s about motion.

Maybe walking 18 holes.
Maybe chasing grandchildren.
Maybe continuing to say yes to new adventures.

Chronological age counts years.
Physiological age measures vitality.

And then we get to my favorite one.

Emotional age.

When someone asks for that number, I grin.

“I’m six,” I tell them.

How do I know?

Because a year ago, when my grandson Henry was six, I noticed something.

I liked what he liked.
I laughed at what he laughed at.
I was curious about what he was curious about.

If he wanted to explore, I wanted to explore.
If he wanted to run, I wanted to run.
If he thought something was amazing, so did I.

That’s when it hit me.

Emotionally, I’m six.

Which may explain a few things.

It may explain why I collect turtles.
And rubber duckies.

Yes, rubber duckies.

Most 82-year-olds are downsizing. I am apparently accumulating small, brightly colored bath toys.

But have you ever really looked at a rubber duck? They are unapologetically cheerful. They float. They make no sense whatsoever in the grand scheme of adulthood. And yet they bring joy.

Six-year-olds understand that.

Six-year-olds also understand the magic of root beer floats. The thrill of rocket launches. The joy of discovering chamber music for the first time at age 81. The wonder of trying something new and not caring if you look a little out of place.

Six-year-olds are curious. They are open. They are alive.

Somewhere along the way, many adults trade that in for seriousness. For caution. For a narrowing of the world.

I’ve decided not to.

So yes, chronologically I turn 82 on Sunday.

Physiologically, I’ll gladly accept 43.

Emotionally?

Six.

And maybe that’s the most important number of all.

Because the real question isn’t “How old are you?”

The real question is:

How curious are you?
How playful are you?
How open are you?
How alive are you?

If I’ve learned anything in 82 years, it’s this:

Take care of your physiological health.

Be grateful for your chronological years.

But guard your emotional six-year-old at all costs.

He is the one who keeps you young.