The days before Dillo Day were a whirl of wristbands and curling irons, ripped packages and early bedtimes. Mayfest posts and Fizz comments flooded our phones as the whole university waited with bated breath for the biggest day of the year.

For the past several months, Dillo was the singular event I looked forward to the most. As a first-year, the hype around Dillo started before I even set foot on campus last fall — I remember assuming it must be a lie that Kendrick Lamar once performed at Northwestern and felt astounded when I Googled for proof. 

Dillo undoubtedly brought the school to life. The Lakefill, usually devoid of students, exploded with color and sound, the pulsing synth like a heartbeat. But the truth is, Dillo wasn’t quite the euphoric experience I expected. There were moments of elation. But there were also painful shoes and bathroom lines.

I thought the performers sounded great. The festival itself was put together impressively by Mayfest. But the concerts often felt like a test I didn’t study for. 

I felt occasional satisfaction upon getting a lyric right, but for the most part, I was just bobbing along, craning my neck for infrequent glimpses of the artists through the hordes of screaming, sweat-dripping students clad in leather and spandex. My knee-high boots kept sticking to my calves.

As I watched the performers flit from view from between raised arms and cellphones recording videos, I came to the disconcerting conclusion that the best parts of Dillo didn’t actually come from the festivities.

There were definitely moments during the concerts when I experienced the emotional high I’d spent the prior months chasing. I felt that transcendence when the crowd moshed to Malcolm Todd’s “Sweet Boy,” orange fireworks emerging from behind the stage. Shouting the lyrics as Daya performed “Hide Away” also made for a welcome throwback.

But for the most part, the highlights of Dillo came from the trivial moments that I could have experienced any other day. Like perfecting an 8 a.m. smoky eye, greeting strangers and laughing at their reactions, sipping Sprite Cherry and watching the golden hour sunlight outline the Lakefill. 

I find this to be the case with most major events — holidays, birthdays, trips, graduations. I expect to wake up as a different person on these days, to feel something transformative enough to warrant the months of anticipation. Only something as fantastic as an extraterrestrial encounter would meet my inflated expectations. 

However, the truth is that I’m only marginally happier during big events as opposed to an average day. The parts that bring me the most joy often aren’t the parts I hyped up.

But whether or not Dillo lived up to the excitement isn’t as relevant of a question as people make it out to be. It often doesn’t matter if an event was “worth the hype.” Excitement isn’t like currency. It isn’t a trade-off, and people don’t lose anything by feeling it. 

Next year I’ll plan my outfit just as meticulously and check for Mayfest announcements just as steadfastly, because the anticipation is a source of pleasure in itself. Even if the simple moments, not the event as a whole, end up being what makes it worthwhile.

I’ll ditch the boots next year, though.

Allie Deutsch is a Medill first-year and author of “Two Cents.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.