I have always felt a deep connection to that scene in “Office Space” where they beat that one  antagonistic printer to pieces in a field. So when I stumbled upon Smash Pit in Springfield, Va., a “rage room” that  opened in October, I realized that this could be my chance to live out my printer destruction fantasies. The concept is pretty straightforward: Patrons, who may find themselves stressed, angry, or otherwise in need of emotional release, show up to don protective gear and smash assorted items for a set amount of time. Yes, that’s right. You pay to destroy things — pottery, glass, metal, technology — using your choice of weapon. Honestly, I couldn’t sign up fast enough. PC Load Letter? Bring it on.

5:55 p.m.: Generally speaking, I hardly qualify as an angry person, but, sitting in Friday evening, rush-hour traffic to go check out a place where you go smash things to relieve stress seems like a particularly inspired choice. I’m about to turn into the Hulk. 

6:21 p.m.: Smash Pit is located in a warehouse in Springfield, but on this dark and rainy night, it feels more like I’m in the backwoods, and I find myself half-expecting a rage-crazed person to pop out of the trees lining my drive, wielding a hammer. No one does. 

6:22 p.m.: I pull into a spot in the quiet parking lot and dial Katrina Burson. She’s the registered nurse behind Smash Pit, and she instructed me to call her when I arrived. 

6:23 p.m.: Modern chairs and fake trees bedeck the lobby, but no one else is here, so it’s slightly eerie. I double-check I’m in the right spot. (I am. I mean, how many other warehouses with hip lobbies are open to the public on a Friday night?)

6:28 p.m.: Katrina arrives and escorts me through a labyrinth of corrugated metal walls. As we wind our way there, she tells me that opened Smash Pit as another approach to wellness. Some people do meditation (not me), some people do yoga (also not me), some people smash things (me?). We stop in front of the door with a sign declaring “Smash Pit.”  

6:29 p.m.: She pushes the door in to reveal a swanky lounge with a flat-screen TV, two snug arm chairs, and some bright, abstract art. Four other people are waiting in white, disposable jumpsuits, wearing safety goggles, a face shield, and protective gloves. They wave at me very politely and happily for a group that’s about to go crush things into smithereens.

6:31 p.m.: Waiver time, y’all. I sign away with no hesitation. 

6:32 p.m.: There are two so-called rage rooms, and Katrina ushers the first pair into theirs, which has been staged with an artful array of items in the center, and gives them their final instructions. 

6:33 p.m.: The door on their room clicks shut. A spectacular shattering noise rings out. “Oh, shit!” exclaims the guy standing outside waiting for his rage room. “That’s what I’m talking about, ladies!” Katrina crows exultantly. The sounds of recreational destruction fill the air. Katrina escorts the other pair into their rage room.

6:35 p.m.: “Alexa, play Nirvana,” Katrina instructs. Smash Pit’s digital DJ obeys. (Alexa probably has a keen awareness of the buckets of sledgehammers, bats, and hammers staged outside the two rage rooms and likely recognizes what happens to rebellious technology. Rock on, Alexa.) 

6:36 p.m.: Each rage room has a small window for onlookers, and I peer in. One woman is using a bat to hit a home-run with a brown juice glass. In the other room, the two are taking a bat and a sledgehammer to what looks like an innocent cake pan. 

6:47 p.m: The first pair emerges, glowing. “It’s a nice workout!” one woman declares as she shucks off her gear. Katrina chats with them and points them to bottles of water and snacks, grabbing a broom and dustpan to sweep up. 

6:49 p.m.: The second pair emerges, all grins. I peek into their room: The cement floor is covered in rage detritus, all that remains of breakables that probably didn’t think they were provoking anyone. 

6:54 p.m.: Katrina rolls a huge black trashbag out of the first rage room. “Now they’re going to watch you smash,” she warns. I blanch. I didn’t expect an audience. You see, as a basic millennial woman who identifies as a basic millennial woman, I’ve seen countless episodes of “Fixer Upper,” and I can attest that Demo Day is not as easy as it looks. My hand-to-eye-to-hammer coordination is admittedly not great. Let’s not talk about how many swings it took me to punch a proper hole in the wall when we needed to remove drywall in our basement. My husband still makes fun of me for it. I don’t know if I’m ready to face the ridicule of strangers. My ego is a fickle thing. 

6:55 p.m.: Audience or not, it’s my turn. I step into my disposable jumpsuit, don my safety goggles, press the safety visor over my face. Tugging on my black-and-yellow gloves, I realize that my long-sleeved shirt and jeans were a poor choice. I haven’t moved hardly at all and I’m getting close to a sweat. Or is that just nerves?  

6:57 p.m.: Well, now is my chance to prove to myself that I do, in fact, know how to wield sledgehammer with authority. I select one from my bucket. It feels electric in my hands. I feel giddy. Is this how Thor feels? 

6:59 p.m.: Katrina shows me to my rage room. A wooden pallet is waiting humbly, with an assortment of plates, cups, a candlestick, metal cake pan, and a lamp bowl atop it. (No printer, unfortunately.) She informs me that I have 15 minutes to smash everything — pallet included — however I’d like. Just don’t turn on the doors or the walls, she tells me. Got it. 

7 p.m.: I heft my sledgehammer and settle my feet, breathe deeply. I exhale on the downswing and … I close my eyes like a total wuss before my weapon connects with its intended target, a seafoam plate. The shattering sound of success fills my ears. Whoa. Katrina whoops from outside.

7:02 p.m.: Tunnel vision settles in as I bust, smash, break, clobber, flatten, grind, and otherwise pound my inanimate prey. It’s deeply satisfying. And also surprisingly hard work: My heart’s pounding and already I’m starting to feel a little burn in my arms. I raise the sledgehammer high and wallop on the pallet. 

7:05 p.m.: I survey the damage — all the breakables are reduced to rubble, and what remains of the pallet has definitely seen better days. I feel pretty proud … and tired. Definitely tired. I’m also sweating. Fifteen minutes of rendering maximum destruction is no joke. I check the time. Wait — what? It’s only been five minutes? Am I that out of shape? Maybe I just attacked with a particular speed and strength that I didn’t know I had, like I awakened my inner velociraptor, if velociraptors had used sledgehammers to attack their prey. I take some more whacks at the cake pan and pallet for good measure.

7:06 p.m.: My arms feel jiggly, and I realize I need to be able to lift them tomorrow, so I decide I’m done for the day. Plus, six minutes felt like a whole lot longer, and I’m pleased with the carnage in my wake. I step out of the room, grinning. Now I just have to hope this euphoria will last through all the traffic on my way home.