Have you ever been unexpectedly airborne?

I don’t mean the Hollywood-Tower-Of-Terror-lifts-your-butt-out-of-the-seat sort of thrill, or even the your-friend-pushes-you-off-the-zipline-platform-because-you-were-too-scared-and-besides-you’re-holding-up-the-line kind of experience.

No, I mean walking along when, in between steps, you find that your feet are no longer in any contact with the cement and your body is being flung at high velocity in a novel direction.

It’s not a fun feeling. Though, of course, the landing felt quite worse.

So maybe it was the shock of suddenly being parallel to the ground when I was perpendicular a second ago; perhaps it was because I hit my head when speed had finished its thing and gravity took over; but it took me an embarrassing couple of moments to realize two men had begun yelling demands and violently patting me down.

That was the first time I was mugged.

Now, 15 years later (good God, was it really that long ago?) I can look back at this traumatic moment of my life and laugh. In fact, I do it quite often — I love telling this story to anyone who will listen, maybe especially strangers at a bar.

After all, “Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make far more interesting conversation…”.

And, according to many people — close friends at the time included — I did, in fact, fail this encounter.

They didn’t blame me for being where I was, or what I was doing (which, by the way, was coming home by bus after sneaking out to see my girlfriend late at night, walking the final mile home with my phone in hand, Zune in my pocket, and earbuds blasting Panic At The Disco).

They blamed me for not fighting back.

See, at this point in my life, I’d been studying various martial arts for several years, from kiddie gloves to Muay Thai. That gym was practically a second home then, since I not only trained there, but also taught lessons, and finished what homework I could between classes.

It was, apparently, expected of me to kick some butt.

That’s not even close to what I did, of course. Even if I had my wits about me and all of my training didn’t fly out the proverbial window in the face of an unanticipated bum rush, I was far more learned in the well-known fighting technique those in the industry call “the thousand-yard dash” than I was in arm bars and chokeholds.

So that’s exactly what I did — after, for whatever reason beyond my comprehension, faking an asthma attack (not hard to do when the wind is knocked out of you), confirming as best I could the duo had no weapons, and somehow snatching my phone back before absolutely booking it. (My Zune, alas, I had to leave behind, much like how the music world abandoned the ill-fated Microsoft device not much later.)

They gave chase for far longer than I expected, though I suppose they were suddenly more interested in teaching me a lesson than recovering their ill-gotten goods. Once I was clearly pulling away, though, they had to satisfy themselves with shouting some not-so-veiled threats in my direction. At that point, though, I had to start giving thought toward what the hell I was going to tell my parents — I think this is what people mean when they say, “out of the fire, into the frying pan.”

Thank goodness the second time I was mugged was far more cordial.

This was right after high school, when I made the extremely adult decision to move to New York before ensconcing myself in the most liberal bubble I could find (a.k.a. The Evergreen State College — yes, I’m a Geoduck).

My time in The Big Apple was certainly an adventure, and I’m sure I’ll get to sharing it with you some day.

This particular incident happened in the wee hours of Nov. 1, as I was making the subway trip from north Harlem, where there was a wild Halloween party, to my quiet apartment on Halsey Street in Brooklyn.

I had recently discovered a magic store and was brushing up on my card tricks and sleight-of-hand, so naturally, I showed up at this wingding armed with a cape, top hat, pressed dress shirt, disappearing walking cane, and as many decks of cards as I could reasonably carry without looking like I was trying to smuggle cigarettes in my slacks.

Of course, my attire was far less fanciful on the return trip home — my cape was folded up, the cane pocketed, shirt disheveled, and the top hat, well, who knows. So to all around me, I looked like some little lost white boy doing his best to stay conscious enough to recognize when his stop came up.

Which is probably why the 300-pound gorilla across the aisle noticed me (before you read into that, he was white).

This time around, I was listening to Three Doors Down on a hand-me-down iPod (at this point, the Zune was a rather expensive paperweight) when I noticed this neanderthal trying to get my attention.

Blearily, I took out my earbuds to ask him what was up — but before I could get a word out, he stated, very matter-of-factly and in a tone that only comes with habitually making similar ultimatums, “You have two options: give me your iPod; give me your phone; or I beat the s**t out of you.”

As you’ve most likely assumed at this point, yes, I was extremely hungover. Which probably explains why my brain failed to notice the potential danger I was in, and instead focused on the fact that this walking tank actually gave me three options, not two. I might be embellishing here, but it’s not improbable that I silently counted the possible recourses on my fingers before realizing what was about to transpire.

A quick triage determined that my phone was, although fairly outdated, absolutely necessary to keep, as well as my head. That left the iPod, which already didn’t have enough memory to even hold a third of my music collection, and the headphones — the bare-bones kind that came with the device — were aiding my migraine, rather than soothing it.

So I quickly passed it over.

And — to my absolute amazement — we shook hands before he got off at the next stop, soon to be disappointed by my taste in music, I’m sure.

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that we were the only people in the subway car — it was actually quite crowded, mostly with young adults who I figured would not be interested in stepping in if this guy decided to introduce his fist to my face.

But the woman sitting next to me was actually playing with her digital camera when this exchange transpired. After he exited stage left, she suddenly looked at me and asked, “Did you just get mugged?”

Replying in the affirmative, she quickly swore and pocketed her valuables — figuring, somehow, that she could suddenly share the same fate as I, despite the departed villain.

I soon reached my stop, walked to my apartment building, and climbed the four stories up to my roof-access pad, the adrenaline suddenly sinking in.

My roommate — who normally did a fair job ignoring me unless I brought home an eighth — noticed my pale (OK, paler than normal) complexion, and assumed the party went poorly. Or, it went too well. Really, it depends on what goals you set.

After correcting his supposition, he immediately began berating me for, you guessed it, not fighting back. I’m not even positive he was aware of my decade spent training in martial arts — he just expected me to put up my dukes and defend my honor, no matter that “my honor” in this situation was a paltry bit of plastic and data.

Now, two points of data does not a pattern make, but I find myself far more concerned with this idea that it’s preferable to fight over material objects than the fact there’s people out there who will take your stuff by force. Of course, this does not mean there’s never no reason to defend yourself — I just think doing it over a credit card you can easily cancel or a phone you can brick is simply not worth it.

So at the end of the day, now that I’m a father, I’m looking forward to passing these stories down to my child, both to make him laugh as well as hopefully glean something from the valuable lessons I had to learn the hard way.

First and foremost, it’s almost always better to run than to fight, and there’s never any shame in doing so; similarly, if running is not an option, simply giving your attacker what they want is far preferable than a beating. Your wellbeing is far more important than anything you may have in your pockets.

Second, then, is to never expect help from the people around you — although my first mugging happened late at night, seeing a teenager being chased by two men in the middle of the street should have clued passing drivers in to something being off. And, of course, anyone else on my train car in New York who overheard the not-so-subtle “conversation” we had could have similarly given aid, and they did not.

Bystander apathy is a hell of a thing — which is why, third, you should always be aware of where you are and who is around you. Not just for your safety, but for other’s as well, as I would hope that you will grow up to be a person who is willing to offer assistance in a dangerous situation, and not succumb to the mindset that “someone else” will step in to help.

And, finally, if everything goes to s**t, you hit first, hit hard, and hit dirty. I’ll be more than glad to show you a few things.