Wednesday night. I’m dead asleep, dreaming about something amazing—possibly sex, possibly cheese, possibly Chris dressed as cheese, I don’t know—when suddenly… dream pain.

That low, dull ache in my lower abdomen.

Ladies, you already know.

The ovaries were staging a protest. Again.

I figured I’d wake up and it’d be gone, like those dreams where Paul Rudd and I are dating and raising emotionally secure dogs together. But no. I woke up Thursday morning and the pain was still there. Not ...