Many people are born many things. I was born a liar. I’ve done it my entire life. Exquisitely, craftily, subtly. These weren’t the gross, enormous Enron-style lies that cheat people out of fortunes — unmistakable as the entire state of Texas. They were a little more than white lies, a little less than dark ones. Sometimes they were lies that protected me, my fantasies and dreams. More often, they just made life a whole lot more interesting.

At age ten I bamboozled my cousins with endless tales of invented friends – a gymnast named Mugsy whose family chef could flip an entire skillet full of pancakes without a spatula, a bald old man named Henry who chewed tobacco and called seductively from a rocker on his front porch. As I grew older, I created false identities to share with seatmates on airplanes – a foreign correspondent, a twenty-year-old mother of two, a surgical resident (wouldn’t you know that one found me parked next to a professor from UCLA medical school). When take-out restaurants asked for a name I’d become Violet or Cordelia or Alice Marie. I’ve lied to parents and dates, to best friends and strangers. I’ve even lied to therapists. There was a time when – fresh out of college — I lied about my age so much, spreading myself from 19 to 29 depending on the audience, that I actually forget the truth and had to count back from my birth year.

I’ve lied to my detriment, a fifteen-year-old anorexic twisting tale of the meals I swore I’d eaten. I’ve lied to better the world, promising I’d collected $50 towards a Halloween UNICEF drive then having to empty my piggybank to make good. At my peak I was something of an operator — three-timing a trio of honest Southern California gentlemen — so silk-tongued and savvy not one ever had a clue. I could dump undesirable dinnermates, invent elaborate weekend plans, be home when I was out and out when I was home, all with my tongue tied behind my back.

Everybody lies a little — except Born Again Christians, which in my mind is yet another screaming reason not to convert. They lie about their weight, on their resumes, to blitz through customs. A choice few lie too much, stealing pension funds, going to war under false pretenses, and sleeping with your husband. The real artists carve out a lovely valley right in between. We don’t tell downy pure just to protect another’s feelings fibs — that’s amateur territory. Nor do we venture into the sharp and black, meant to do damage. Our creations are verdant, lush, occasionally carrying a whiff of danger but rarely anything more.

In my opinion, lying gets a bad rap. As if honesty were really possible. Or even desirable. Lying has given birth to films, novels, the femme fatale and the Kennedy’s. It turns lives three-dimensional, full of those colors and textures the cold hard facts can’t always provide. Of course lying has boundaries. But so do chocolate, skirt lengths and continental Europe. And I don’t see God laying down Commandments against any of them.

I don’t lie so much now that I’m in my mature and responsible thirties. I can still concoct when the situation demands, like a magician’s scarf pulled from my sleeve. I can ditch a bothersome companion or a parental missive without breaking a sweat. But nowadays it’s more about function, less about form. I suppose that’s a good thing, in the building relationships and contributing to society sense. But I do miss it. Life is drabber, more earnest, lived noticeably further from the edge.

For those uninitiated to the lying game, I encourage a test drive or two. There’s only one rule, and it’s easy to remember. Play as fast and loose with the truth as you dare. Just never…get…caught.

P.S. For extra credit, how many lies did I tell in the above?

MY RACING HEART: The Passionate World of Thoroughbreds and the Track, by NAN MOONEY, is in bookstores now. For updates, go to http://myracingheart.com