One of the most lofty ways to remind yourself where you rank in physical coordination is playing Frisbee.

Simple as it would seem to toss and catch a plastic, circular flying disc, the activity can quickly reveal your limitations and squash your estimations flatter than a pie tin.

No wonder. The trade name “Frisbee” is a spin-off from the Frisbie Baking Co. of Bridgeport, Conn., where distracted college students in the early 1900s discovered empty pie containers could be thrown and caught.

A few days ago, the opportunity arose anew for yours truly to unwittingly make a mockery of human dexterity. Yet I not only agreed to participate in a throwing around a flying disc – I initiated it.

The opportunity was part of a “lazy days of summer” theme of a good friend’s 30th birthday party at Shively Park. She had decided to host a weekday afternoon of concerted lollygagging.

We had construction paper and glue and multicolored felt-tip pens on hand to satisfy craft cravings, especially handy for making last-minute birthday cards, as well as a barbecue and cake (before the meal, of course). The event was a grand assertion that not all fun has to occur on weekends.

One group engaged in the Indian yard game known as “Bocce,” kind of a cross between croquet and shot-put. Meanwhile, five of us assembled in a wide circle around them and hurled our yellow plastic disc at each other. We could have gone elsewhere, but what’s the fun in that?

The enduring popularity of playing Frisbee owes largely to the satisfaction of throwing, once you start to get the hang of it. A slight tingle in the fingertips accompanies the release as you straighten your arm and flick your wrist forward, sending that aerodynamic plate screaming toward a comrade.

Ours was a friendly, casual round in which we were simply throwing the thing, rooting for each other to catch it, complimenting good throws and sometimes sustaining a volley.

A swingset in our midst blocked so many of the throws I am convinced it had to be some form of Frisbee magnet. Or maybe it was the Frisbee’s fault. Did this miniature flying saucer somehow warp standard laws of gravity and probability and good judgment?

An additional challenge was avoiding the Bocce players in the middle of our “arena.” You can’t do much harm with a flying disc, unless you happen to be playing with a circular saw blade, but it can sting if a Frisbee hits you.

I know this because when I was a kid, friends and I would deliberately try to hit each other with Frisbees in a twisted salute to the video game “Tron.” Our tournament in a tennis court became a sort of disc dodgeball maelstrom.

Take it from me, cardboard armor can only go so far to protect you. It is no wonder Frisbees came from a manufacturer known as “Wham-O!”

But my bruises the other day were more psychological in nature. Why? Because for some reason, whenever tossing around a flying disc, I feel compelled to try “fancy schmancy” catches.

I routinely attempted to catch the Frisbee under my leg, for example. Once every 25 attempts or so, I could actually do it.

The rest of the time, my leg shot out with seemingly unbridled chaos, kicking high into the empty air as if I had severe insectophobia and just discovered a centipede crawling on my toe.

Time after time, I kicked in vain as the disc sailed past, taunting me, floating far down the hill toward the parking lot.

As a kid, I had more practice. Once in awhile I even used to be able to tip a low-cruising Frisbee upward from my shoe, and with that hang-time I could to let it drop majestically into my waiting hands. But accomplishing this feat requires adroit feet, and failing makes you look like a stork stuck in a wad of bubble gum.

“Use your head,” I told myself. So I tried tipping the disc by bobbing and jumping upward just as it soared over me. “Wham-O!” was the resounding reply to my skull.

Yes, if you’re like me, playing Frisbee you can make you look downright ridiculous.

But what fun to try, to literally stretch in the attempt. And once in awhile, despite the absurdity of it all, by taking a chance, you can actually execute a bona fide fancy schmancy catch.

At such moments you can look at the piece of plastic, and instead of feeling sore, you soar.

Brad Bolchunos, the south county reporter for The Daily Astorian, notes that pie tins can be substituted for Frisbees. But for better aerodynamics and less mess he recommends removing the pie first.