Your sock comes off almost as easily as your foot had come out of that puddle earlier in the night, and just like with the puddle your foot looks fine, completely unchanged. The sock, on the other hand, still has a heft to it, a round bulge at the end weighing it down. Your curiosity still not sated, you flip it upside-down and pour out its contents: some especially thick, viscous pink latex slime from the puddle.
The stuff's clearly safe - your foot was in it for quite some time, and it's utterly unharmed - so you quickly spoon it into a large bowl so that you can observe it more easily, trying your best to get every drop. Sitting quietly and gazing at it at first, you note that it doesn't really do anything on its own. It's very shiny, and reflective enough that you can make out your own visage in its calm surface, but that's what you'd expect from latex, isn't it? In fact, other than the apparent liquidity of the substance, you'd say it's virtually identical to latex! Of course, if it hadn't been then that probably would have been a bad thing, but you still can't help but feel a little disappointed. It's the same feeling that you get going to a car race expecting a crash: the crash is horrible, sure, but it's just not as exciting without one.
You watch that latex for a few more minutes to make sure it won't do anything spectacular or amazing (it doesn't, sitting there as motionless and boring as ever), then start feeling the strain of the night coming back to you. Looking over to the clock, you realize that it's far later than you'd thought and decide to turn it in for the night, leaving the strange but incredibly dull liquid latex sitting unobserved on your kitchen table while you get some shuteye.